


Shadow of the Hawke

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [41]
Category: Airwolf, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Team Arrest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-03-26 07:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19000927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: With Team One under arrest for using technology against the magical world, it’s up to their friends, family, and allies to solve the mystery of the black and white helicopter and its master.  And when the escaped convicts come after the imprisoned Team One, Team One finds themselves in the middle of another showdown between magic and technology.





	1. Rally Cry

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the forty-first in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Bite of the Wolf".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_. I also do not own _Airwolf_ , a TV show from the 1980's from which I have discreetly borrowed from before. This story includes characters and concepts from _Airwolf_ , but you don't need to be familiar with the show.

_Previously_

The shadow that appeared out of the night went almost unnoticed as it approached the miserable, windswept island, hidden by magic and shifting seas.  The craft’s engines were whisper-soft, the sound of the blades blending into the roar and crash of the ocean against the isle’s rocky coast.  The Aurors on duty never even looked up as the black and white shape ghosted over the prison’s roof.  A low, wolfish rumble was the only sound it made as it hovered in place.

* * * * *

Anderson fumbled with the helicopter’s door, but managed to pull it open with a soft _hiss_ from the door seal.  Loki followed him into the black craft’s interior and their rescuer brought up the rear.  The rescuer exchanged a solemn nod with the pilot, then the pilot pulled back on the controls, lifting the helicopter off the ground.  The co-pilot tapped the controls to raise the landing gear, then the black ‘copter turned away from the prison and flew away, vanishing into the sunrise without a single spell impacting its metal skin.

* * * * *

Holleran rose, pulling the transcript clear of its binder; both men sucked in a shocked breath when the commander opened it to see pages and pages of blank white paper.  Holleran looked up at Simmons, pale and furious.  “What the _hell_ is going on, Auror Simmons?”

* * * * *

“One case of missing explosives,” Commander Holleran reported, “Four cases of missing ammunition as well as some climbing gear.  None of the hot calls in the past month required explosive entry of any kind and training isn’t enough to explain the quantity of missing ammo or the climbing gear.”

* * * * *

Giles whirled, right into a gunshot.  The man stepped forward, sneering as the Auror slammed down on the ground, the file in his hands spilling to cover the floor around him.  The shooter angled his gun at the fallen Auror, but Onasi didn’t move as blood soaked his chest and robes.

* * * * *

Alanna blinked back tears and hugged him fiercely; Greg savored her warmth.  “Love you, Uncle Greg.”

“And I love you, too, _mia nipote_ ,” Greg whispered back as his nephew joined his sister.  “I have to go now,” he admitted when the Aurors behind him started shifting unhappily.  “See you soon.”

* * * * *

Moffet considered a moment, tilting his head to the side.  “Phase one is complete,” he purred, pushing the helicopter’s controls forward.  “Phase two…is just beginning…”

* * * * *

_Now_

Alanna sniffled as she ducked out of sight.  In an empty room, she forced her tears down and locked her most determined expression in place.  She _refused_ to believe that Uncle Sam had shot Auror Onasi.  It wasn’t _possible_ , but the only one who could say _that_ for sure was Auror Onasi, which meant they needed him _yesterday_.

Cautiously, Alanna peeked out of her hiding place and watched as the Healers congregated outside of the room where Auror Onasi was.  She bit her lip, forcing a scream of impatience down.  It seemed to take _for-ever_ , but the Healers finally left, giving her an opening.  She skittered across the hallway, pushed the door open, and ducked inside before anyone could see her.  Inside, she panted a moment, catching her breath.

Red light played on the inside of the door and she turned, her eyes widening in utter shock at the sight of Roy Lane, still and stiff as a board on one of the hospital beds.  He wasn’t breathing and Alanna swallowed nervously at the way his eyes seemed to be staring right at her.  Stubbornly, she turned in the other direction to see Auror Onasi, lying on the other bed.  She hurried to his side, examining him as much as she could.

“Wake up,” she hissed as softly as she could, shaking him.  It didn’t work and she forced herself to stop, step back, and look more closely at him.  His breathing was shallow and starting to rasp, his color was pale and grayish, and when she pried one lid up, his pupil didn’t react to the small light she conjured.

“Well?”

Alanna yelped, jumping and whirling in one motion to come face-to-face with her amused brother, who stood smirking at her with his arms crossed.  “Don’t _do_ that,” she scolded.

Lance rolled his eyes.  “C’mon, sis, as if you were going anywhere _else_ when you snuck outta bed.”  Stepping forward, he asked again, “Well?”

The redhead bit her lip.  “He’s in bad shape,” she replied, ducking her head.  “I…I think he’s dying.”

Her brother nodded thoughtfully, as though he’d already known what she would say.  “Can you heal him?”

Alanna clenched her fists.  “I have to, for Uncle Greg and the rest of them.  He’s the only one who knows what really happened, who really shot him.”  She looked over Lance’s shoulder and shuddered.  “What about Roy?”

Lance followed her gaze, but he didn’t shudder at all; instead, his expression turned sad.  “Uncle Greg should’ve let us come here,” he remarked flatly.  Alanna’s expression turned confused and her brother quietly shook his head.  “We could’ve fixed _that_ a lot easily before now, but I think I can still help him.  Not here, though…it would make too much noise.”

“Copy,” Alanna whispered, turning back to Giles.  “Go big, you think?”

“If you think he might be right on the edge, yeah, sis,” Lance confirmed, stepping back.

Alanna reached out, resting one hand on Giles’ chest, right over his heart, and bringing the other to hover right over the bullet wound.  “ _Thurhhaele_ ,” she intoned firmly, letting her magic swell and burn in her eyes.

Violet light flowed out of her hands and into the patient, rapidly sinking in.  Alanna’s forehead wrinkled as a strange shadow fought her magic, attempting to complete its deadly task.  “No,” she growled, fighting back.  Her magic murmured and Alanna summoned up her Animagus talents.  Tears formed in eyes that blazed with her magic.  Lance’s hands pulled away the sheet as she leaned forward, tilting her head to the side.  Two tears dripped into the wound, which glowed an instant, then began to close over.

Onasi’s breathing eased as the violet magic fought the shadowy magic, ripping it to shreds as it also burned out another attempt on the Auror’s life; Alanna jerked at the sharp sting against her power, but held firm.  When it was done, Alanna was sweating and shaking; her brother supported her as she crashed to the floor.

He knelt beside her anxiously, but she waved him off.  “I’m okay, it just took a lot out of me,” she told him, before frowning.  “Lance?”

“Sis?”

“What is _that_?” Alanna asked, pointing to a shiny _something_ under Auror Onasi’s bed.

Lance craned his head to look under the bed, then frowned himself and whispered a quick summoning spell.  The object flew to them, but neither touched it as it hovered before them.  “A syringe?  In St. Mungo’s?” Lance questioned.  “ ‘Lanna, see if you can find a bag or something.”

Alanna nodded, pushing herself upright.  She grabbed the edge of the bed as her legs wobbled, then walked slowly to a nearby table stacked with supplies.  The teen poked around the medical supplies for a few moments, then came back with a small bag that she and Lance carefully maneuvered the syringe into without touching it.  As they finished, there was a soft groan from the bed.

Lance finished with the syringe as Alanna stumbled to the bed and covered the Auror’s mouth.  “Don’t yell,” she hissed in his ear.  “It’s me ‘n’ Lance.”

After a second, she pulled her hand back.  “What are you two doing here?” Auror Onasi demanded, though his voice was just as soft as hers.  He peered over her.  “St. Mungo’s?  Are you two nuts?”

“They arrested Team One tonight,” Lance announced solemnly.  “One of the charges was _your_ attempted murder.”

“What?”  Auror Onasi jolted upright, then gasped and clutched his ribs.

“It might take another minute for the pain to go away,” Alanna informed him, a wan, tired smile peeking out.

“Noticed that, thanks,” Auror Onasi rasped out, blinking as Lance handed the makeshift evidence bag to Alanna, then trekked over to Roy.  “You can’t touch him,” the Auror remarked, “No one can.”

“Really,” Lance drawled, pausing by Roy and looking back.  “Is that so?”  Smirking, he reached out and poked Roy’s shoulder, doing his best to hide the faint flicker of gold behind his fingers, gold that whispered _familiar, family_ to the scarlet.  The magic flexed, allowing the touch with a sense of near amusement that felt faintly of his uncle.

“How?” Auror Onasi breathed in shock.

“Tell you later,” Lance promised, gold swirling around him as he reached out again.  The Auror’s jaw dropped as Roy’s form relaxed for the first time in almost five weeks, slumping bonelessly down on the bed, though his eyes and face were still frozen and staring, scarlet magic still swirling around him.  “You can touch him now,” Lance announced, though he still kept his voice down.  “You can even move him, which is what we need to do.  Now.”

“Now?”

Both teens nodded.  Alanna looked up at the Auror.  “Whoever’s really doing this, you’re a threat to them.”

Auror Onasi grimaced and stumbled out of bed, gasping as the cold air hit his skin.  “I’m not going far in these,” he observed, plucking morosely at the hospital garb.

Alanna studied the garment, grimacing in agreement.  Holding out her hand, she incanted, “ _Forscieppan hrægl_ **(1)**.”

The thin fabric twisted and flexed, rapidly changing form to a basic Healer’s robe.  Lance glanced down, offered a grimace of his own, then moved to Roy’s feet, cautiously working his magic against the scarlet light around Roy enough to pry Roy’s boots and socks off.  He brought them over to Auror Onasi, who made a face, but nodded and tugged the socks and boots on.  They were a bit too tight, but when Alanna lifted her hands again, Auror Onasi waved her off.

“It’s good; I can manage,” he reassured the girl, standing up again.  He swallowed hard, then walked to Roy’s bed and reached out to touch his partner for the first time in well over a month.  Instead of pushing him away, as Giles had half-expected, it thinned, almost parting as he leaned close and gently gripped his friend’s shoulder.  “Hey, Roy, guess we’re finally making some progress, huh?” he murmured in the other man’s ear.  “Let’s get out of here, you been here long enough already, partner.”  He was disappointed when Roy didn’t react at all, glancing over his shoulder at the two teenagers.

Alanna regarded him with open worry, Lance with quiet understanding.  Giles drew in a breath, let it out, then turned back to his partner and hefted him up, ignoring the protesting twinge from his stomach muscles, still sore from the gunshot wound.  The magic around Roy surged for an instant and the Auror felt it lash at his hands before subsiding, as though it had judged him worthy of helping his friend.

Though Giles felt a smidge of indignation at the idea of being _judged_ by _magic_ , the feel of the magic against his skin wasn’t haughty or sneering.  It felt like desperation.  Last chances and last stands and _refusing_ to give up.  It felt like Parker.  Only…not.  As though somehow Parker had imbued his spell with part of his own _soul_.  Unnerving and the Auror hoped he was wrong.

“The light,” he hissed, realizing it all at once.  “They’re going to see it.”

“No,” Lance replied, his voice quiet.  “We’re going to make sure no one notices us.  Otherwise, they _are_ going to notice that you’re _carrying_ Roy, not using your wand.”  As he spoke, Alanna scooted over a table right next to the bed Giles had been lying on and snatched his wand up.

Despite knowing – somehow – that the magic around Roy would not allow anything other than physical contact, Giles flinched sharply.  That was _his_ wand, not Alanna’s, and to be deprived of his only weapon stung.  Stung and throbbed in time with the pull on his chest from where he’d been shot.  In the dimly lit room, neither teen seemed to notice his split-second of distress; the Auror forced it down, sternly reminding himself that Parker’s charges wouldn’t let him get hurt.  Heck, they’d probably _welcome_ the chance to deal with his attacker and _express_ their displeasure with the threat to their adopted family.

Forcing his attention away from Alanna, Giles examined Parker’s nephew; the young man bore up under the Auror’s gaze with steady calm, his sapphire eyes meeting Giles’ without a twitch.  The moment stretched as Giles tried to place where he’d seen that kind of calm before, then he remembered.  “You remind me of my old partner,” he rasped, old sorrow in his voice.  “He was hard to rattle, too.  Even when he jumped into something without a plan, you trusted him ‘cause you knew he always had a way out, no matter how bad it got.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Auror Onasi,” Lance replied, bowing his head in thanks.

“Giles,” the Auror corrected, smiling wanly.  “You’ve earned it, both of you.”  He hefted Roy up a bit higher and slung the limp man over his shoulders.  “Let’s get out of here, kids.”

* * * * *

It was beyond weird, to walk through St. Mungo’s hallways with Roy over his shoulders and _not_ be spotted.  Lance ranged ahead while Alanna covered their rear and any time someone came close, Giles saw a faint light in his companions’ eyes before there was a sound or a rattle or even a random object tumbling to the ground.

The Auror shook his head at the simplicity of the strategy, but it worked.  Every.  Bloody.  Time.  If he hadn’t been in the middle of sneaking out, he’d have rattled more than a few cages over how _sloppy_ the Healers were being.  To his further mixed dismay and amazement, they reached St. Mungo’s Floo without being spotted even _once_ ; even the Welcome Witch had fallen prey to the siblings’ tactics.

Alanna looked nervous with their destination, but Lance was calm, cool, and collected; he knew _exactly_ what he was doing.  He turned, waving Alanna forward.  “We’re headed for Shiloh,” he told her.  “When I saw you were gone, I headed for the Taylors’ and asked them for help.  They’re waiting for us at Shiloh.”

The girl went solid red in embarrassment, then plucked a pinch of Floo powder out of the hospital provided supply and tossed it in the fire.  “Shiloh Academy,” she called, stepping into the fire.

Giles shifted, then winced as pain jabbed his chest, emphatically reminding that he _had_ been _shot_ , healing spell or no.  Grimacing, he ignored the flare and shifted again, trying to judge how much he could adjust Roy’s body on his shoulders before he overbalanced, but Lance was well ahead of him, grabbing a double pinch of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantel and tossing it in.  Giles nodded thanks, called out their destination, and stepped into the Floo, letting it haul himself and his partner away from the hospital.

On the other side, Giles did something he hadn’t done in _years_ …he fell; automatically he twisted so that _he_ hit the ground first instead of Roy.  Again he felt the scarlet magic flare indignation, then it settled, as if sensing that he hadn’t _meant_ to fall.  He suppressed a yelp of pain when Roy landed on his still sore chest, driving the air from his lungs.  Hands grabbed him and dragged him clear of the Floo; the Auror kept ahold of his partner as he was pulled, no sense in leaving Roy in the way for Lance to sprawl over.  When the pulling stopped, he looked up, unsurprised to see Grant and Brooke Taylor.

Grant spoke before he could.  “Giles!  You’re okay!”

A rueful grin touched the Auror’s jaw.  “I hear it was touch and go for a while,” he drawled, letting Grant heft Roy off him.  Behind them, Lance stepped clear of the Floo.

“Touch and go?” Brooke demanded.  “Way _we_ heard it, they were already planning your funeral.”  She whacked him.  “Don’t scare us like that again, Giles Onasi!  Understand?”

Giles rubbed his shoulder – Brooke could hit _hard_ when she wanted to – and pushed himself up.  “Yes, ma’am.”  He looked for Roy and was somehow unsurprised that Lance was pointing Grant to a mat normally used by the students during their warm-ups.  “We’re doing that here?”  And never mind that he still had no idea what ‘that’ was.

“Yes,” Lance returned simply.  “Probably for the best.”  He looked up at Brooke.  “Did you call Aunt Shelley?”

Her lips pursed.  “I did.”  Propping her hands on her hips, Brooke scolded, “Lancelot Artorius Calvin, ‘Going after ‘Lanna, be back soon’ is not an appropriate message!  Shelley was frantic when I called.”

Lance ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Sorry.”

Brooke snorted and looked down at Roy.  Seeing his frozen expression, she shuddered.  “What are you going to do?”

The teen followed her gaze.  “I’m going to break the time freeze,” he replied simply, moving over to Roy and crouching down behind him.  “Giles, I need you in front,” he ordered.  “Roy’s not going to know what’s going on when he wakes up.”  Next, he looked up at Grant.  “Can you get his shoulders?”

“Sure,” Grant agreed, crouching down at Roy’s head and gripping the time-frozen man’s shoulders.  Giles scrambled into place at Roy’s front while Alanna hovered off to the side.  “What are we doing?” Grant questioned, his gaze intent.

Lance considered, then made a face.  “I can break this, but I’m not gonna be good for anything after that.”  Brooke abruptly moved into position at Lance’s back.  “And I can’t explain it, Mr. Taylor, I just have to do it.”

Grant grimaced, but nodded.

Giles, for his part, watched closely as Lance reached forward, one hand resting on Roy’s back and his left glowing gold as he gripped the frozen man’s neck.

* * * * *

Gold curled around Roy’s form and the scarlet pulsed, surprised by the intrusion.  Unlike the first few times, this time it pushed back against the gold: it had to keep the man alive until help could come.  The golden light paused, then nudged at the scarlet again.

_“He’s safe.  You can stop now.”_

The scarlet swirled faster.  _“Fledgling.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I do not know that help has arrived,”_ the scarlet pointed out, though it was confused.  Help _should_ have arrived long before now…

_“They didn’t know how to tell you it was safe to stop,”_ the fledgling explained.  _“And your human never brought my sister and I to the hospital; he didn’t know he had to tell you to stop.”_

Scarlet flexed, pushing lightly at the gold for clarification.  The golden magic obliged, nudging an image of the scarlet’s human at it: a sickly gray tinged man who’d walked in the door _that_ day and nearly collapsed right then and there.  For a moment, the scarlet was appalled.  Whipping frenetically in agitation, it demanded, _“Where is my human?”_

Another image pressed in: the same human being dragged away from the fledgling and his sister.  The scarlet withdrew, growling and snapping in indignation.  Without Greg Parker’s conscious mind to guide it, the magic was wild and feral, bound to its gryphon instincts and Greg’s desperate last order.

The gold hovered patiently, then ‘spoke’ again.  _“We need Roy’s help to bring your human back,”_ it explained.  _“Roy’s safe, I promise.  The job’s done.”_

_“My human is not here,”_ the scarlet countered.  _“This human cannot handle me.”_

_“I know, but I can.”_

The scarlet magic jerked, thrashing from side-to-side as it tried to consider that.  _“None may carry any more than they are given by Him,”_ it pointed out after several seconds.

_“I know, but it’s the only way,”_ the fledgling insisted, _“Your human is too far away to take you back and if you don’t let Roy go, he may_ never _come back.”_

Scarlet _thrummed_ , but did not immediately respond.  When it did, the words were slow.  _“You will strengthen me,”_ it observed.  _“My human is already afraid of me.  This will make it worse.”_

Above Roy’s body, golden eyes closed.  _“I know and I’m sorry.  Will you do it?  For him?”_

In answer, the scarlet light pooled, lighting up Lance’s hands and arms as it flowed upwards and into him; his eyes turned dark amber as the red and gold mixed.  He jerked as the magic swirled, settling into his skin, then his eyes rolled up and he collapsed backwards into Brooke’s arms.

 

[1] Old English for ‘Change clothing.’


	2. McKean Magical Prison

Team One had been dire straits before, but that didn’t make a lick of difference as they were dragged into the Canadian Auror Division holding area and tossed into cells by the very same Aurors they had worked with.  None of the Aurors spoke to Team One, but the cops could tell that their former colleagues were cold and rigidly furious.  The wizard responsible for running the small cell block gleefully activated every last ward on the cells, an action that made Sam and Wordy wince as they felt their tiny amount of magic stagger under suppression wards meant to restrain those wizards capable of wandless magic.  Greg didn’t react at all, something only Ed and Jules noticed.  Once the wards were activated, Team One was left alone.

Greg rubbed his wrists, then raised his voice.  “Team One, status!”

“No harm,” Ed called back, his words echoed by Jules, Spike, and Lou.

The Sergeant frowned.  “Sam?  Wordy?”

Sam groaned, leaning against the walls of his cell as his vision swam and the cell appeared to dip and spin around him.  Wordy was scarcely any better, for all that he didn’t rely on his magical core like most Squibs did.  He was curled up on the floor of his cell, a migraine pounding against his skull as his core automatically struggled against the suppression wards.

Greg couldn’t see his constables, but Ed was in prime position; his expression was appalled.  “Eddie?”

Ed swallowed hard.  “I think it’s whatever they turned on before they left, Greg,” he reported.  “Has to be…Sam and Wordy are the only members of the team with a wizarding background.”

Jules’ eyes widened, darting towards Sam’s cell involuntarily.  “Sam!” she called, fear vibrating in the name.  “Wordy!”

Despite the fact that fear rang in the second name as well, Greg couldn’t help but notice that her fear for Sam was greater than her fear for Wordy.  A slight frown emerged, drawing his constable’s attention.

“Boss?  You’re not in trouble?” Jules asked, the question a touch accusatory, as if Greg had failed somehow by escaping the suppression wards’ effect.  In the last two cells, Spike and Lou’s curiosity was palpable, with none of Jules’ accusation.

Ed opened his mouth to snap at Jules, but Greg shook his head.  He was about to reply when the cell block door opened again.  A blond Auror stepped inside, his short stature and compact frame giving his identity away at once.  “So,” he drawled sarcastically, “Enjoying your stay so far?”

Jules snapped around towards the Auror.  “Turn off whatever’s hurting Sam and Wordy!” she demanded loudly.

The Auror jerked in surprise, then strode forward.  “What are you talking abo…?”  He trailed off, staring at the two men with shock.  “Merlin’s Beard!” he swore, retracing his steps and drawing his wand as he moved.  Seconds later, the suppression wards were deactivated; Sam groaned in relief and straightened, but it took Wordy several minutes to recover enough to crawl back to his feet.

Shrewd dark eyes inspected Greg for any ill effects, but Simmons didn’t remark on the lack thereof.  Instead, he stalked to where he could see every member of Team One and waited until both Sam and Wordy were back on their feet and halfway coherent again.  “You know,” he began, his voice calm and casual, “I really didn’t want to believe it.  Giles swore up and down that you lot would never risk everything you’ve gained to let a pack of Dark Wizards loose on our world.  That you didn’t hold us to blame for what happened to Roy Lane…”  Ed hissed in shock.  “…and I believed him.”  The Auror shook his head slowly and paced back and forth.  “I believed him right up until you _shot_ him, Braddock!”

Sam jerked back away from the bars.  “I _didn’t!_ ” he protested loudly.

“No?” Simmons asked, his tone condescending, insinuation thick.  “It was _your_ gun.”  He swung towards Ed.  “Just like it was your gun that killed three guards at McKean and two more at Azkaban.”

Ed’s jaw dropped and he gawped at the Auror.

And Simmons wasn’t even finished as he swiveled back to face Wordy.  “And _your_ phone that they found at McKean, right where you and the fugitives escaped from the prison.”

“Escaped how?” Wordy asked weakly.  “And my phone went missing…”

“…right around the time our prisons were attacked,” Simmons finished smoothly, crossing his arms.  “ _Quite_ the coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”  He rocked back and forth on his heels.  “But the phone _we_ found wasn’t even deactivated, or so the goblins informed us, so…” he leaned forward, his face outwardly pleasant.  “…tell me, Constable Wordsworth, how _do_ you explain that?”

Team One held their silence, well aware that anything they said now could be used against them at trial.  Wordy held his silence for another reason as well: he was too dizzy and nauseated to see straight; feeling himself sway, he retreated to the cell’s tiny cot and slumped down, struggling to keep his gag reflex in check.

“Nothing to say?” Simmons jeered loudly, ignoring Wordy’s cringe.

“Senior Auror Simmons,” Greg put in, his voice quieter and more intense.  “You know trial procedure as well as we do.”

The Auror paused, frowning as he absorbed Greg’s unspoken argument.  Reluctantly, he inclined his head, moving so that he was face-to-face with the Sergeant.  “Point,” he admitted.  “And if I say all of this is off the record?”

“It’s not illegal to lie to suspects,” Greg countered calmly.  “Even less so in the wizarding world than the tech world.”

Simmons tapped his wand against his palm, thinking.  Suddenly, he thrust the wand forward; Greg flinched, but the wand never pointed at him.  “I, Nathanial Simmons, swear on my magic that I will not use any information I discover in this conversation against the members of the Strategic Response Unit’s Team One.  So mote it be,” Simmons said firmly.  Magic blazed around his wand, sealing the oath.  Grimly, the Auror met Greg’s eyes.  “So tell me Parker: did you do it?”

Greg let his indignation show and leaned forward, bracing his hands against the bars of his cell as he returned Simmons’ fierce gaze.  “ _No_.”  The negotiator cocked his head to the side.  “And you know it, Nathan.”  He ignored the Auror’s hiss at the use of his first name.  “The _Lestrange_ brothers?”  Greg gestured in Wordy’s direction.  “Why would we break _them_ out of prison after their actions during the Wizarding Wars, never mind what their father did to Wordy’s parents?”  Pausing, Greg leaned back, shifting his stance so he could stand more comfortably.  “Anderson?  He kidnapped two little girls and tried to murder my constable.  I would have to be completely out of my mind to want _him_ out of prison…same for the rest of my team, Nathan.”

“And Loki?”

The Sergeant considered, then shrugged.  “I suppose you could make a case for him; he was more annoying than dangerous…almost his own worst enemy, particularly the second time around.”  Greg let that hang, then shook his head slowly.  “However, given his attempt to murder a whole room full of innocent civilians, I would, again, have to be insane to want a wizard like that loose on our streets.”

“That’s your argument?  That if you did it, you wouldn’t have done it for _them_?”  Simmons was incredulous.  “What about Giles?”

“He’s our friend,” Sam piped up.  “We don’t attack our friends, period.”

“How is he?” Jules asked softly, her eyes worried.

Simmons stiffened and didn’t respond, but his very lack of response told Team One it wasn’t good news.  The Auror growled, almost to himself, then glared at Greg again.  “Any _other_ arguments in your defense, Sergeant Parker?”

It was Ed who spoke before his boss could.  “How do you figure we made it from Toronto to Azkaban, then over to McKean in less than twenty-four?”

The Auror swung towards him, then one shoulder shrugged.  “A Muggle helicopter.”

“They don’t fly that fast,” Spike countered, crossing his arms.

“This one did,” Simmons argued.

“Spike,” Greg interceded before his bomb tech could argue further.  “If the escapes were by helicopter, Nathan, then I _do_ have another argument.”

Surprise marked Simmons’ face as he turned towards Parker, one eyebrow hiked.

“No member of my team possesses the license necessary to fly a helicopter,” Greg explained politely.  “You could argue that a lack of license doesn’t necessarily mean that we lack the skills to fly, but to the best of my knowledge, none of my team has even had training in how to fly a conventional aircraft, much less a helicopter.”

“Conventional?”

“You know,” Spike jabbed, “Two wings and a tail?  Big noisy engines?  That kind of thing?  They fly out of the city all the time.”

Though he was clearly unimpressed with Spike’s theatrics, Simmons considered Greg’s point quite seriously, frowning as he tried to poke holes in the Sergeant’s arguments.  “How can I be sure?”

“Go to the airport and ask,” Ed countered.  “Or you could head over to our aerial department and ask around; we’ve got more than a few police choppers and I bet the pilots could tell you what it takes to get that kind of training.  It’s not a quick, easy process, can tell you that much.”

Simmons’ frown deepened, but he didn’t question them further.  Abruptly, he looked up.  “You’re all being sent to McKean until trial,” he announced.  “Take my advice and keep your heads down.”  Without another word, he turned on his heel and left, the door clanging shut behind him ominously.

* * * * *

Not long after Simmons left, the techies were hauled from their cells and transported to McKean Magical Prison by Portkey.  On arrival, the team staggered against their escorts before falling all over each other.  Ed hauled Wordy to his feet, supporting his friend as the brunet struggled to recover from the spinning, wrenching Portkey travel and the nausea induced by the suppression wards.  He watched Jules help Sam up, but said nothing as the slim brunette clung to her boyfriend, fine tremors running through her body.

He couldn’t even blame her, not here, not now.  In addition to worrying over Sam’s health, Jules was almost certainly slated for the women’s portion of the prison.  As a pure techie _and_ a cop, Jules would be a prime target for any of the female prisoners and none of them would be able to help her or protect her.  Sam reached back, hugging his girlfriend – unlike Wordy, he was fine, but Ed suspected he would milk the moment in hopes of protecting Jules just a little longer.

Their escorts sneered, two Aurors forcing the couple apart before another one wrenched Wordy away from Ed’s support; the brunet swayed, but managed to stay on his feet.  Having separated their prisoners, the Aurors dragged them into the prison’s processing area.

Inside, they were assigned prison robes and their civilian clothing was confiscated.  Photographs were taken of each techie, in a procedure that was indistinguishable from its tech-side counterpart.  Instead of being separated from Jules, as Ed had expected, she was dragged along with her teammates to a cell block that was set apart from the prison’s other cell blocks.  In the middle of the group, the team leader caught a glimpse of a sign above the entrance and realization dawned.  It was the _trial_ block.

At lightning speed, he put the pieces together.  For whatever reason, wizards awaiting trial could be kept in the prison itself, but were kept segregated from McKean’s general population.  He wasn’t sure if McKean had separate cell blocks for female and male inmates, but it was possible that the wizarding world didn’t keep the genders separate – yet more evidence of how out of date the magicals were.  At least, the team leader reflected ruefully, there were no dementors at McKean.  A small blessing, but he would take it – right along with his gratitude that Jules _hadn’t_ been separated from the team.

Inside, the officers were tossed into cells that were side-by-side, two to a cell.  As a female, Jules ended up in a cell of her own, but her male colleagues were all grouped up.  Spike and Lou traded tired smiles with each other, Sam shrugged at Ed after stealing a glance at his girlfriend’s cell, and Wordy edged away from Greg, still nursing his grudge from the Roy Lane debacle – along with an impressive splitting headache.

The cell block was along one of McKean’s outer walls, so each cell had a window to the outside, giving the techies their first view of the United States coast and the Pacific Ocean.  It was a rather poor view, all things considered, but still better than nothing.  Once imprisoned, the techies were left alone by the guards to consider their situation.

* * * * *

Greg had decided, at some point in the previous month, that he wasn’t going to argue or debate his decision to save Roy Lane’s life, even at the risk of his own.  Though he was mightily tempted to argue now, as Wordy pointedly ignored him, the Sergeant decided to devote his energy to strategizing a way out of the mess his team had been forced into.

They were being framed, that much was obvious, and given the differences between techie trials and wizarding trials, they had maybe a fifty-fifty shot at discovering _who_ had framed them before they ended up in prison for the rest of their lives.  Frankly, Greg could already take a decent shot at guessing _who_ had framed them, but _proving_ it was another matter entirely.

Particularly with the trap well and truly shut around them.  Sam’s gun, Ed’s gun, Wordy’s phone…and that was just the start.  Moffet had outdone himself on this one, but Greg couldn’t fathom _why_.  After all, his team wasn’t in the wizarding world anymore; they weren’t working with the Auror Division any more…wasn’t _that_ what Moffet had wanted?  Then a thought nudged at Greg; they had left of _their own choice_.  The Sergeant stiffened.  Before the prison breakouts, sympathy had quite possibly been entirely on Team One’s side following the Auror Academy mess.

For whatever reason, that Team One had left the Auror Division on their own terms had been a thorn in Moffet’s side.  Greg’s eyes narrowed as he thought through a few possible chains of events.  One stood out as if painted neon yellow: the _possibility_ that the Auror Division, at some point in the future, would have come back, asking Team One to accept their badges again for one reason or another.

_He didn’t want that to happen, no matter how remote the possibility,_ Greg realized, looking around the cell block with renewed determination.  If they could find a way to shift the investigation towards Moffet, then his team might just scrape through yet.  But to do that, they needed as much information as possible…and they _were_ at ground zero for the second of the two prison breaks.  The Sergeant regarded the door to their cell block thoughtfully, working through an idea or three on how to perhaps _get_ more information.  That his ideas meant he would _not_ be keeping his head down never occurred to the negotiator – not that the realization would have made the slightest bit of difference in Greg’s decision.

* * * * *

The four guards who arrived with Team One’s dinner were very surly and all of Mexican origin.  They chattered to each other as Team One ate, their voices low and grating.  Greg finished his meal, frowning to himself.  He knew some Spanish, but not enough to get the information he really needed from the guards.  However…

**“Have you worked here long?”** he asked politely in Italian.

The guards jerked around, their eyes narrow and unhappy as they regarded the Sergeant.  Finally one of them replied, **_“Several years.”_**

Greg nodded thoughtfully, then inquired, **“Were you here the night the prison was attacked?”**

Another guard growled, very softly.  The lead guard nodded jerkily.  **_“Yes.  We knew the guards who were killed.  Our friends.”_**

The negotiator let his sympathy show in his eyes.  **“I’m sorry for your loss.  Did any of you see what happened?”**

The guards glanced at each other, clearly surprised by such a question from a prisoner.  One of the guards frowned to himself, studying Greg more closely as the lead guard admitted, **_“No, we were patrolling another area.”_**

Team One traded looks with each other as their Sergeant nodded, almost to himself.  It was a shame the guards _hadn’t_ seen anything, but…  Greg cocked his head to the side.  **“Did any of you see the phone they found?”**

The guards frowned in confusion, muttering to each other.  From what Greg could hear, they had no idea what he was talking about.  As if…the Sergeant’s eyes widened.  As if there _hadn’t_ been a phone found.  Even if they didn’t understand _what_ he was talking about, the negotiator was sure they would have remembered if _something_ was found.

Even as Greg drew breath to ask another question, the guard that had been studying him jabbed the lead guard’s ribs and snapped, **_“They are the ones, the ones who came here before!”_**

The Sergeant stiffened in alarm, but much too late; the guards surged forward, hauling him out of the cell before he could say anything in his own defense.  Once he was clear of the cell, the guard who’d spoken up kicked him to the ground, screeching something Greg couldn’t quite catch.  That was the last thing he remembered as the four guards descended on him, howling like banshees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interest of readability, I kept Greg's conversation with the guards in English, but if anyone is interested in how the conversation would have 'sounded' to the rest of Team One, I can include it as an extra chapter once the story is finished.


	3. On the Impossibility of Being Dead

Blood was streaming from his chest, filling his mouth; he wondered, vaguely, if this was how Jerome had felt before he died.  Hands were on him, friendly hands, _finally_ , even though he knew it was too late.  They’d rolled him on his side and they were trying to save him…refusing to give up.  Roy’s eyes rolled from looking at Wordsworth to looking towards Parker, as far as they would go.  “Did good?” he managed.

Parker’s composure held, but only just.  “Yeah, Roy,” he whispered in the dying man’s ear, “You did great.”

Roy coughed blood, feeling his awareness fading.  Everything was getting fuzzy and distant.  “Sor’y,” he gasped out.  “C’n’…sta…”  One last mutter made it out of his mouth. “Don’…wanna…go…”

He felt Parker touch his neck and a shock raced through him; he gasped, feeling that last rush of air in his lungs.  Wordsworth became Giles, peering at him with a mixture of worry and hope; Parker was just… _gone_ …and unfamiliar hands gripped his shoulders.

Roy yelled, jerking back as his hands suddenly _moved_ ; he promptly fell into _two_ someones behind him.  Reflexively, he tried to scramble up and his body _responded_.  Except he really shouldn’t have tried to get up; his head spun and he fell again, toppling right into his partner’s grasp.  Dimly, he reached for his own chest, expecting to touch a bloody mess, but his hands touched smooth skin instead.  The gunshot wound was gone…which meant…which meant…

“Roy, Roy, calm down,” Giles cried as Roy started to hyperventilate.

“Calm down?  Calm _down?_ ” Roy screeched.  “I’m dead and you want me to _calm down?_ ”  He gasped for air, his hands pushing against his chest, searching for the hole that should’ve been there.  Or maybe once you were dead, stuff like that vanished?  And…  “Where _are_ we?”  Panic flared like a rocket.  “Giles, she got you, too?”  _No, no, no…_

“Roy Lane, _shut up and breathe_ ,” Giles snarled, gripping him tight and shaking him.  Roy squeaked, but shut up, greedily gulping in air like it was going out of style.  “ _Thank you_ ,” his friend snapped before looking at someone over Roy’s shoulder.  “He okay?”

Huh?  Roy twisted around, his eyes widening in shock and no small amount of horror at the sight of Lance Calvin slumped in a mystery woman’s lap.  “He’s dead, too?  _Owww!_ ” Roy yelped as Giles hit him, smacking the back of his head.  “That _hurt_ ,” Roy whined, rubbing his head.  _Hurt?  Why does it hurt when I’m dead?_

“Good,” Giles growled.  “Will you shut it about being dead, you idiot?”

“But…I died,” Roy protested faintly.  He’d felt the life going, felt his awareness vanishing…and he’d been paralyzed right there at the end, but he wasn’t any more.  He had to be dead…right?

The two strangers blinked at each other, then the woman cleared her throat.  “I think Lance is just unconscious,” she informed Giles briskly.  “I wouldn’t mind getting a Healer’s opinion, but that’s…”

“Out of the question,” Giles finished firmly as Roy alternated between staring at his partner and staring at the limp Wild Mage in Mystery Lady’s lap.  “We’ll keep an eye on him.”

The woman nodded.  “Grant, could you take him?” she requested of the black haired man with the beginnings of a bald spot in his hair.  “I’ll go see if Shelley’s gotten here yet,” she drawled as Lance was hefted off her lap.

Now very, _very_ confused, Roy questioned plaintively, “What’s going on?”

Giles heaved a sigh as Roy’s attention traveled around the room, spying a red-haired girl trailing after the man carrying her brother’s limp body.  “Parker saved your life,” the Auror stated flatly.  “Nearly killed _himself_ doing it, but you made it to St. Mungo’s.”

“Huh?”  He sure didn’t _remember_ a hospital…

“Roy, you were shot over a _month_ ago,” Giles added.

Roy’s mouth worked soundlessly and he stared at his partner in mute shock.  _A_ month _?_

The other nodded as if Roy _had_ spoken.  “You were frozen in time,” he explained tersely.  “Whatever Parker did let the Healers in enough to fix your chest, but no one could even _touch_ you…the magic would just push us away.  You didn’t move, didn’t breathe…”  Roy blinked, spying more than a little wetness in his friend’s eyes.  “We weren’t sure if you were dead or alive,” Giles admitted softly.  “For all _we_ knew, Parker was just an instant too late and the Healers had fixed up a dead body that wasn’t…quite dead yet.”

Roy shivered violently and gulped.  “So…how’d you…break whatever it was?” he asked, staring at the floor and absently rubbing his chest right where he’d been shot.  A _month_ …he’d lost a month of his life…?

Giles was silent for so long that Roy looked up again.  “A couple nights ago,” the Auror murmured, “ _I_ got shot.”  Roy froze.  “Then, earlier this evening, Team One was arrested.”

“For _what?_ ”

The other gave him a mirthless smile.  “Among other things, my attempted murder.”  The smile dropped away.  “Alanna apparently snuck out of Shelley Wordsworth’s house to get me back on my feet and her brother followed her.  Once they had me up, Lance did something…not sure what…and the magic finally let us – _me_ – move you.”  Roy’s brow quirked and Giles shook his head.  “Before that, Roy, if the Healers tried to make the magic stop or move you to a different bed, it pushed them away and zapped them, almost like you were coated in Stinging Hexes.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, after that, we came straight here from St. Mungo’s and the kid pulled one of those Wild Magic stunts to free you…and here we are.”

Roy swallowed, shivering again.  “Here we are.”  The shivering rapidly increased and his ears started to buzz as his body reacted to…everything…the detective wasn’t aware of collapsing as his world turned black.

* * * * *

Grant carried Lance through the gateway to Shelley Wordsworth’s car with Alanna trudging along behind him; he breathed a sigh of relief when he realized she’d brought her family van.  That would save them some heartache.  The blonde woman slipped out of the driver’s seat, gasping when she saw Lance’s limp form.  “What _happened?_ ”

“Don’t fuss too much,” Grant advised, tilting his head towards the back door; Shelley pushed it open.  “These two didn’t do tonight perfectly, but I think we’re in better shape now than we were this morning.”

“We?” Shelley questioned, fixing the wizard with a gimlet eye.

Grant refused to back down.  “Giles is back on his feet and so is Roy Lane,” he reported, lifting his burden into the backseat.  Behind him, Shelley gasped as he hunted for the seatbelt.  “Alanna’s probably going to crash fairly soon herself; my advice is to let them sleep as long as they can.”  He buckled the belt in place as a yawning, sleepy-eyed Alanna climbed in the opposite side and crawled in the van’s rearmost seat to buckle up herself.

Straightening, Grant turned to face Shelley head on.  “They did a giant’s work tonight, Mrs. Wordsworth.”

Shelley opened her mouth to reply, then Giles appeared from the gateway with Roy slung over one shoulder.  She gasped again as Giles trekked over, the stress of the past few days showing on his face.  “Roy keeled over,” he told the other adults.  “I think…I _hope_ …it’s just…everything.”

“Let’s get you home,” Shelley decided as the Auror searched for more words, his exhaustion plain.  “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”  Gently, she guided Giles over to the other side of the van; with some help from Grant, she got both men buckled.

“Can you handle them alone?” Grant questioned.  “I can probably catch the Knight Bus if you need more help.”

“No, we’ll be fine,” Shelley promised.  “Trust me, Mr. Taylor, you pick up more than a trick or two as the wife of an SRU constable.”

* * * * *

Shifting, the man on the couch was hardly aware of the sunlight streaming in the window, aside from a restless movement that conveniently brought one arm up and over his eyes to block out the sun’s glare.  At first, the poke in his side went equally unnoticed, but the poking persisted until the man woke up enough to be annoyed by the interruption to the first good night of sleep he’d gotten in over a week.

He twisted around to snap at whoever was bothering him, only to be brought up short by wide blue eyes that peered up at him from a young face that was partially blocked by the teddy bear the little girl was hugging.  Just behind the little girl’s shoulders, a small, intricate glass hummingbird hovered, its wings a blur as keen black eyes studied him.  Instead of snapping at them, Roy blinked and offered a quiet, “Hi.”

The little girl perked up and the hummingbird seemed to bounce in midair.  “I’m Ally!”

Roy, in spite of himself, grinned back.  “That’s a pretty name.”  She nodded solemn agreement.  “Who’s your friend?”

Ally snuck a peek up at the emerald-hued hummingbird.  “Emmy.  She’s Claire’s.”

The lanky detective whistled low.  “Wow,” he murmured, his eyes skating over the magical creature.  His attention shifted back to the little girl.  “I’m Roy.”

“Mommy says you’re Uncle Ed’s brother,” Ally informed him.

For an instant, Roy’s mind blanked.  _Uncle Ed?_   “Um…yeah…” he stumbled out, one hand pushing through his snarled hair; he winced as the hand promptly protested touching _anything_.  Emmy twittered in concern, hovering up as if to inspect Roy’s hands.  The detective pulled the hand out of his hair and added, “He’s my older brother.”

For some reason, Ally looked very…hopeful…at this news.  She tugged on his sleeve and Roy leaned down to hear her whisper, “Do you know how to make grown-ups let me stay up late?”

The detective choked back laughter.  “Like your sisters?”

“Uh-huh.”

As Roy studied Ally, Emmy chirped amusement from above his head, flitting between the two humans before spinning in midair and flying out of the room.  “You the middle or the youngest?” the brunet inquired.

Her pout said it all.  “Youngest.”

Leaning back, Roy pretended to consider.  “You know…when I was your age,” he winked, “a long time ago…”  She giggled at him.  “I had this aunt of mine.  She was a younger sister, too, and I think I asked her if she could help me stay up late, like my brother.”

Ally was spellbound.  “Did she?”

Roy leaned closer, conspiratorially.  “She told me not to try and grow up any faster than I had to and that _I_ had an advantage by being younger.”  Ally’s expression was confused; Roy winked again.  “She said when my _brother_ had white hair, I could laugh at him, ‘cause _my_ hair would still be gray.”

Disgust twisted the little girl’s face and she was _very_ unimpressed.

Roy laughed.  “I think I gave her that exact same look, too.  She was an odd old bird, that was for sure.”  He propped his chin on his hands, ignoring the harsh sting of broken skin, and regarded Ally more seriously.  “You’ll get there, Ally, trust me.  Every younger sibling does, even if it does take forever.  In the meantime…” he grinned, “Your sisters are just as jealous of you as you are of them.  After all, everyone knows the it’s the _baby_ of the family who gets away with _everything_.”

Ally considered that, but her face was still sullen behind her teddy bear.  Roy’s grin froze on his face when she reached out and fingered his chest curiously, right at the hole in his shirt.  “What happen there?”

Roy looked down, trying not to blanch at all the blood on his shirt, blood that had soaked into the area where he’d been shot and spread out on the shirt’s left side before drying and leaving a gory mess.  Carefully, he pushed himself up, edging around Ally as he wriggled out of his jacket.  Cold air hit his back, right about where he figured the exit wound must have been.  Shivering, Roy twirled his jacket around and swallowed against a lump in his throat at the massive amount of dried blood on the jacket, not to mention the damage from the bullet.

A soft gasp made him look up; Shelley was standing in the doorway and Roy realized she could see both his jacket and his shirt in the sunlight.  She took two steps into the room and held out her hands.  “Shirt and jacket.  Now,” she ordered.  He looked down at Ally, who was watching them in fascination, but Shelley shook her head.  “I’d rather you didn’t run around my house in bloody clothing, Roy.  I’ll call Sophie and see if she can get you some new clothes.”

Reluctantly, Roy surrendered the jacket and yanked his shirt off as well.  “Don’t lose ‘em; they’re probably evidence.”

Shelley shuddered at that, but nodded agreement.  “Giles already gave me your boots and socks,” she informed the detective.  “Once Sophie gets here, I’ll add your pants to the pile while you take your shower.”

Roy looked down; it hadn’t registered until right then that he _was_ barefoot.  _At least,_ he reflected ruefully, _the floor is carpeted._   “Ummm…” he rubbed the back of his head, wincing at the fresh sting from his hands.  “Thanks.”

Wordy’s blonde wife regarded him closely for a moment, then smiled broadly.  “I’m glad you’re all right, Roy.  Maybe Kevin will stop feeling guilty now.”

“Kevin?”  Roy stared at her blankly, confused all over again.

She giggled and held out her hand, miming someone about Roy’s height.  “You know, yea high, very short brown hair, practically attached to your brother at the hip.”  Realization dawned and she laughed at him.  “You didn’t think _I_ called him ‘Wordy’, did you?”

Roy trailed her into the kitchen, feeling sheepish and foolish.  “Um, never thought about it actually.”  He watched as she found a clean trash bag for his jacket and shirt, shivering anew at how _close_ it had been.  “Why would he feel guilty?” Roy questioned, finally taking a good look at his hands in the light and cringing at the damage to them…no _wonder_ they hurt so much.

Shelley glanced over and gasped at the sight of Roy’s battered, bloody hands.  She snapped a nearby cupboard open and pulled out a first aid kit, bringing it to the table between herself and the lanky detective.  “Greg made Kevin acting team leader once they found out _you_ were involved, Roy,” she explained, even as she pointed him to a chair, right near a shepherd’s hook with a hummingbird feeder dangling from it.  “And you’re his best friend’s brother… _of course_ he felt guilty about what happened.”  She tisked, her face a picture of disapproval as she leaned over Roy’s hands and began to clean them with disinfectant.  “He’s been taking it out on Greg all month.  _Men!_ ”

Roy supposed he should feel insulted on behalf of his fellow males, but he was too busy trying – again – to wrap his head around that one word: month, it had been a _month_ since he’d been shot.  He hissed in pain as Shelley worked, but managed to ask, “What happened to Suzanne?”

The blonde woman opened her mouth and snapped it shut as she spotted Ally peeking in, still watching Roy avidly.  Silently, she shook her head and Roy understood.  The detective swallowed hard and let himself slump down in the chair as Shelley set one hand down and picked up the other to clean it.  “Guess she’s not my girlfriend anymore,” he quipped weakly.

“I’m just grateful she didn’t take you _with_ her,” Shelley whispered, pausing in her work long enough to lay a hand on his arm.  “Greg was stupid to do what he did, no two ways about it, but at least it worked.”  Roy wanted to ask what it was, exactly, that Parker _had_ done, but he wasn’t sure how to ask.  Shelley returned her attention to his beat-up hands, working as gently as she could as she cleaned debris out of them and smoothed antibiotic medicinal cream over his fingers and the backs of his hands.  Roy restrained his flinches and winces, then jerked in shock as Emmy reappeared, flying to the hummingbird feeder; the little bird landed on the feeder’s perch and leaned forward to drink.

“What is _that_?” Roy hissed as low as he could.

Shelley smiled in spite of herself.  “Emmy is a long story,” she replied quietly.  “But the short version is accidental magic.”  Roy’s eyebrows shot up; as he stared up at the small glass animal, Shelley took full advantage of his distraction to clean and swab the worst of the remaining damage.  “How did this happen?” she asked quietly, drawing Roy’s attention back to his hands.

“Not sure,” Roy admitted, slumping down further in his chair.  “I think Suzanne probably did it, though.”

Shelley’s lips pursed, but she didn’t say anything, not with Ally still watching them in fascination.  When the blonde was done, she sighed.  “I think we might have to ask Giles if he can heal you,” she admitted.  “We can’t wait for this to heal on its own, Roy.  Not now.”  She rose, beginning to clean her supplies up.  “Go wake Giles up,” she instructed without looking up from her task.  “I’m letting Lance and Alanna sleep as much as they want, but we need to get in front of this before it gets any worse.”

Oh.  Right.  His brother and Team One.  Roy saluted Shelley’s back as she turned to tuck the first aid kit away again, then rose and headed down the hallway towards where he could hear someone snoring.  He buried an impish grin.  Really, all that magic and Giles _still_ snored like a bear.  He reached what _had_ to be the guest room and pushed the door open as the snoring faded.  Debating, Roy leaned against the door jamb and was about to yell at his partner to get up when Giles sat straight up in bed…and just as suddenly toppled off the side.

Naturally, Roy responded to his partner’s dilemma in a responsible, mature, adult fashion.  He roared with laughter.

* * * * *

When he woke up, he wasn’t quite sure where he was.  It took a minute for a foggy memory of Shelley Wordsworth waking him up and coaxing him through getting his partner inside her home to surface.  Groaning, Giles considered rolling over and sleeping more, but something else was nagging at his thoughts.  Closing his eyes, the Auror let his mind wander, hoping to fall back asleep, then sat bolt upright.  He hissed as pain jabbed at his chest, right where he’d been shot, but the pain faded after a moment.  Team One.  They’d been arrested.  For _his_ attempted murder.

Grimly, the Auror shifted to roll out of bed…and promptly fell off the bed as the tangle of sheets around his chest and legs tripped him up.  Laughter brought his head around, _familiar_ laughter.  The rest of the prior evening’s memories surfaced and Giles fought his way free from the sheets, frantic to see _who_ was laughing.

Sure enough, Roy Lane clung to the door jamb as he howled at his partner’s predicament.  Giles growled and pounced, slamming his partner down on the floor; Roy, still laughing hysterically, elbowed him in the gut and squirmed free.  The two men happily tussled in the Wordsworths’ hallway, trading more than a few playful blows as they ‘fought’.  Giles even managed to get behind Roy and promptly gave him a noogie; Roy yelped in protest and rolled, forcing his friend to let go as the ‘fight’ continued.

The play ended when a woman cleared her throat behind them.  Slowly, sheepishly, Roy and Giles turned, looking up at a stern Shelley Wordsworth.  Peeking around Shelley’s legs were three awed little girls – Giles flushed bright red.  “Clean up, both of you,” Shelley ordered, pointing towards what Giles assumed was the bathroom.  “I called Sophie and she’s bringing clothes over for you, Roy.”  Roy ducked his head in embarrassment as Shelley’s eyes refocused on Giles.  “Grant showed up this morning with a bag for you; he said to tell you that your dragonhide jacket is just fine, but it looks like someone went through your apartment while you were in the hospital.”  The blonde woman shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips.  “And _boys_?  Playing like puppies works much better when you have four legs and a tail.”

The three little girls broke out into giggles as the men flushed a brilliant shade of red and traded chagrined looks.


	4. Aslan Is On The Move

When the guards dumped Greg Parker back in his cell, there was hardly a patch of skin that _wasn’t_ cut, beaten, or bruised.  Wordy’s grudge was forgotten as he rested two fingers against his boss’s pulse; he sighed in relief when he felt it throb against his fingers, but worry dominated his face as he carefully hefted his Sergeant’s limp body up enough to move him to the tiny, thin cot laid atop the stone slab that served as the cell’s sole bed.

“Wordy?”

Wordy looked up towards the barred window that separated his cell from Ed and Sam’s.  “He’s alive,” the brunet constable reported grimly.  “But he looks like they beat him half to death.”

Someone swore and Wordy felt like joining them.  Softly, to the unconscious man, Wordy whispered, “What happened to keeping your head down, Sarge?”

There was no response, not that he expected one.  Gingerly, Wordy adjusted his boss enough so that he could sit on the floor next the head of the cot and keep a closer eye on Sarge’s breathing; it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either.  Leaning his head back against the wall behind him, Wordy wished they were _home_ and _safe_.  He bit back a snort; well, as safe as a SWAT team ever was, anyway.

Absently, Wordy rubbed his head, wondering _why_ his boss had started talking to the guards at all.  “Guys?  Did anyone understand what Sarge was talking to those guys about?”

Spike piped up from two cells over.  “He was trying to find out what they knew about the prison break.”

Jules whistled.  “Guess they didn’t like him asking questions.”

Wordy agreed, but Spike didn’t.  “No, one of ‘em thought the Boss was, you know…”

“Part of the break out team,” Sam breathed.

Wordy’s gut clenched.  “So they go nuts ‘cause they _think_ Sarge is one of the bad guys?”

Spike sighed and Wordy heard a distant _thump_ as if the bomb tech had smacked the cell bars in frustration.  “The guards that died, they knew them, Wordy.  How would _we_ react if we thought someone hurt a friend of ours.”

“It’s no excuse,” Ed growled angrily.  “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Yeah, ever notice that only counts in the wizarding world if they _want_ it to?” Spike snipped.

Wordy scowled and Lou snorted agreement.  “Sirius Black,” the tan-skinned constable opined.  “Dead bang guilty of mass murder and never mind that he never got a trial.”

“Me,” Wordy offered up.  “I swear, they decided I was guilty as soon as they saw my armor, guys.  If Neville and Harry hadn’t jumped in, I probably would’ve been in Azkaban that first day.”

“Count more than a few people from the Second War in, too,” Sam grumbled.  Wordy arched a brow and Ed apparently gave Sam a narrow-eyed look because the sniper elaborated.  “Before the Ministry of Magic fell, they tossed a bunch of people in Azkaban for supposedly being Dark Wizards.  No trial or anything…they just did it to show the public that they were ‘doing something’.”

“That’s just great,” Ed snarked.

Wordy wedged himself farther into his corner, watching his boss’s chest rise and fall; he felt like pond scum.  Sure, Sarge had pulled a crazy, dangerous stunt, but in hindsight he’d gone _way_ over the top in ‘retaliation’.  He’d held a grudge for a split-second, do-or-die decision, proudly nursing it for over a month…because _he_ felt guilty.

Funny how it was only now – when Sarge was hurt – that his anger had died down enough for him to recognize his own folly.  Something in the air changed and Wordy cocked his head, trying to figure out what it was.  Then it clicked: his boss’s breathing was growing harsher.

The constable scrambled forward, briskly checking his Sergeant over and finding what he’d missed the first time.  Now, a low, vicious curse _did_ escape as he closed his eyes and debated what, if anything, he could do.

“Wordy?” Ed demanded, alarmed.

“Ed, his ribs are broken,” Wordy reported, his head dropping down onto his arms as self-disgust and despair filled him.  “I shouldn’t have moved him; his _ribs_ are broken.”  One fist thumped down on the stone slab, but Wordy didn’t even notice the sting of broken skin in his inner turmoil.  Greg Parker needed help, but none was coming…not tonight…

* * * * *

It was very late at night when the hag found herself waking up.  She shifted, frowning to herself as the wind whispered past her, carrying the Lion’s words.  Over the past several months, the Lion had been reaching out to her, His voice almost unheard, but she was getting better at listening for Him.  And, just like all the other times He had spoken, He wanted her to lift one of His up in prayer.  Carefully and quietly, the hag slipped out of her bed and made her way to a clearing that her camp always left open and deserted for her use.

Granny Cantril’s old hands moved with surprising swiftness as she set up her loom, selecting her threads more by touch than sight.  When the loom was ready, she settled herself and set it in motion, drawing a sharp _clack, clack_ from the wooden frame.  She always thought better with her loom under her fingers and her hands busy with the work.  Instead of praying, Granny Cantril began to sing, softly at first, then with more strength.  The Old Narnian rolled off her tongue as she let the song fill the air under the half moon.  Under her hands, the weaving took shape: a lonely tree in a small grove with two prisons in the background.  High above the trees, the wind and clouds shaped a Lion’s form, watching over the souls below.

When another voice joined hers, she paused long enough to look down and smile at the young wolf who’d joined her.  Brightpaw tilted his head back to howl the next stanza, letting his song carry over the trees and hills around them.  One by one, the rest of the camp’s pack joined the young wolf, the howls mixing together as the wolves sang, each wolf in perfect harmony with the rest.  The loom _clacked_ under the hag’s hands as the group’s midnight chorus sent an ancient Narnian song of mercy and forgiveness, hope and healing, soaring through the sky.

* * * * *

Outside the wards that guarded McKean Magical Prison, there was a small grove of trees that belonged, ostensibly, to Alcatraz.  In the center of the grove, a young beech tree grew strong and tall.  The tree had arrived to Alcatraz as a sapling, purchased by one of the prison superintendants as a gift for his wife and infant daughter.  Tree and girl had grown up together and the girl’s mother soon grew quite used to finding her daughter under the beech tree, playing or reading to ‘her’ tree.

When the child was ten years old, her mother had gotten sick and she had run to the tree grove to cry in private.  As she wept her heart out beneath her favorite tree, she felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up to see a being made entirely of beech tree leaves.  The being looked, to her eyes, like another little girl.

The two stared at each other until the beech tree spirit tilted her head and asked, “Why are you crying?”

The girl sniffled.  “My mother is sick.”  Curiosity sparked.  “Who are you?”

The spirit was surprised by the question.  Wistful, she replied, “I have no name.  I have no mother, either.”  She looked down, shuffling her leaves.  “I am sorry for your mother.  I hope she is better soon.”

From then on, the two were inseparable.  The little girl named her friend ‘Jade’ and taught Jade how to read and write; many nights the two snuck into Alcatraz’s tiny library, where they would read and laugh, long into the night.

It was a good life, until the little girl grew up and her father accepted a new position, far from Alcatraz’s shores.  The girl gave Jade a small collection of books as a good-bye and promised to come back one day, though she never did.

As the moon rose, Jade sat beneath her tree, reading one of her favorite books again.  A whisper in the wind reached the tree spirit and she looked up, listening to the voice that spoke in the language of her heritage.  The tongue of tree and bark, root and branch, a language she had never been able to teach her friend, no matter how hard she tried.

As she listened to the message, she shuddered.  She knew about the magical prison hidden on her island and she feared it.  If she should pass its boundaries, she didn’t know if she could ever return to her tree again.  But the whisper wanted her to enter the prison and help an injured human.  Jade shook her head as fast and hard as she could, whimpering in fear.

The wind blew back through the grove of trees, murmuring the same message, more insistently.

“No, no, no,” Jade cried aloud, her leaves rustling violently with her terror.  “I won’t go!  You can’t make me!”

So she curled up beneath her tree, with her hands clamped over her ears and her head shaking ‘no’ as the wind whistled around her and repeated its message ever more urgently.

* * * * *

Under normal circumstances, Wordy was a great respecter of personal space.  Except in training or if his team had to clump together in the field, he did his best to give other people plenty of space to move and talk, expecting the same courtesy in return.

But right here, right now, Sarge’s breathing problems were being compounded by the fact that he was shivering.  He hadn’t woken up, but he was shivering and it was getting worse.  And if the shivering and breathing problems weren’t enough to deal with, Wordy spied a tinge of blood at the corner of his Sergeant’s mouth.  The constable gulped around a lump in his throat; in all likelihood, his boss was bleeding internally.

He couldn’t bring himself to report the new development to his anxious teammates, none of whom had gone to sleep as the night dragged on.  Instead, Wordy worked his way under his boss until the stocky man’s head and upper chest were leaning against him.  Up close, Sarge looked even worse, but the shivering slowed as Wordy’s warmth counteracted the chill of the cell block.

“Come on, Sarge,” Wordy whispered, “Don’t give up on us now.”

To his surprise, a raspy voice responded.  “Wordy?”

“Here, Boss.”

Hazel eyes forced their way open.  “Phone…”

Wordy felt his hands trembling and knew it wasn’t his disease causing it.  “Sarge, there’s no phone here.”

A shake.  “No, your phone,” Sarge forced out.  “Not here.”

The Sergeant’s expression twisted in frustration at the bewilderment on Wordy’s face.  Slowly, painstakingly, “Your.  Phone.”  The man gasped for air, but pushed on.  “Simmons.”

“Sarge, stop,” Wordy hissed, trying to put the pieces together.  “Simmons said they found my phone here, right?” he tried.

A tired nod.

“ ‘Not here’,” Wordy muttered to himself, glancing around the cell.  Sarge was trying to tell him _something_ , but of course his phone wasn’t here…they’d been _arrested_.  He looked down and Sarge looked back, patient confidence in his hazel gaze.  “One word,” Wordy murmured, earning a nod.

Sarge considered, glancing around their cell himself.  Then, almost too quiet to hear, “Escape.”

Wordy added that to the jumble and then, _then_ , it clicked.  “You found out they didn’t find my phone here,” he hissed; the pride in Sarge’s eyes was all the answer he needed.  The brunet squeezed his Sarge’s shoulder.  “Look, just…hang on…we’ll be outta here soon,” he encouraged, though he cringed internally.  “Maybe next time, don’t try to interview the guards?”

A breathy laugh, then his boss let his eyes close again.

In the silence of the cell block, Wordy squeezed his eyes shut against a single tear.  There was nothing left, no pride, no false bravado, just a man at the end of his rope who was desperately afraid of losing his friend.  A man who was realizing that, this time, there was no way out.  There was nothing he, or any of his teammates, could do by _themselves_ to save the day.

Gray eyes gazed upwards, as if the ceiling was nothing more than an illusion.  _Please, don’t let him die,_ the constable begged silently.  _Please.  Don’t take my friend away._

* * * * *

What was she _doing_ here?  Jade stared through the wards at the magical prison below, her fear almost choking her.  This was crazy, she should just leave, forget this madness.  But the wind wouldn’t leave her alone, _His_ whisper was ringing through her grove, her ears, even her precious, priceless books.

The young dryad closed her eyes, remembering all the times she’d played with her friend, all the times her friend had told her stories.

_“Do you think I’ll ever have a mother of my own,” Jade asked one day as she and her friend laid on their stomachs under her tree._

_“Silly, you already have a Mommy, you just haven’t met her yet,” her friend teased, rolling over and nudging Jade with an elbow.  “Besides, you told me that the Lion promised to always be there for you, remember?”_

Always.  Jade’s eyes opened.  The wind whistled at her back, trying to nudge her forward.  Drawing a deep breath, Jade let her leaves fly outwards, curling through the night air towards one of the prison windows.

Inside, her leaves swirled together, rapidly reforming in front of two human men.  One was awake and his expression was alarmed, afraid.  Jade spread her hands as the last of her leaves flew into place.  “Please.  Don’t be afraid.”

Startled cries came from the other cells; she hadn’t realized there were more humans here…more than she’d ever encountered in her life before.  Jade felt a new surge of fear, but the dryad determinedly focused on the other man…her patient.  Carefully, she crouched, studying him with her magic and cringing at the damage she could see.  She could heal him, but…

Jade looked up at the other man, his taut expression and the protective hunch of his shoulders telling her that he was still afraid of her, but his friend meant more to him than the fear.  “I can heal him,” Jade told the man, gesturing towards his friend.  “But you must put him on the ground first.”

They faced off, dryad and human, female and male; Jade wasn’t sure what the human was searching for in the leaves that formed her features.  The other humans were silent, though Jade could feel the weight of their stares.  Her patient coughed weakly in the silence and Jade saw the human squeeze her patient’s shoulders.

“You can really help him?”  Hope warred with fear.

Jade inclined her head.  “Yes.”

The moment hung, then the human nodded and carefully lifted his friend, moving him to the cold stone floor.  He placed the injured man on the ground, adjusting his head in a futile effort to offer a semblance of comfort.  Then he backed away, giving Jade access.

Jade moved, her leaves rustling as she walked forward and knelt next to her patient.  One hand rested on the injured man’s chest, the other lightly touched his forehead.  She drew in a breath, then let her magic out, chanting in Old Narnian, the tongue she had been _born_ knowing.  Her leaves swirled around the unconscious man as her magic worked; even in the cold stone cell, she heard the rustle of a thousand trees.

The healing was slow, partly because she had tarried so long and partly because his magic was gone.  The dryad wondered where it had gone; magic could not be destroyed by anything save death.  But, slowly, steadily, his breathing eased and broken ribs shifted back into place, knitting together as neatly as if they’d never been broken in the first place.  The blood drained from his lungs to be absorbed back into his body while the tears in delicate membranes wove themselves closed.  The bruises darkened, then faded; the scattered cuts sprouted fresh skin.  The dryad could not restore his lost magic, but she could sense that her task was done.

Jade lifted her hands away and looked up, jerking back in surprise at how close the other human had managed to creep as she worked.  Fear was gone, replaced by open curiosity.  “What are you?” he asked, not even a hint of malice in his voice.

Her leaves lifted in a human-like shrug.  “I am of the Tree Folk,” she explained.  “You would perhaps say that I am a dryad.”  She moved back, her leaves rustling a bit more than before, the price of using so much magic.  “Have faith,” Jade urged, “Aslan is on the move.”

Her leaves broke apart and fluttered past the men and out the cell window, passing through the prison wards until they reached the bluff above.  Jade reformed and glanced back at the prison.  “And perhaps,” she added to herself, “has already landed.”

Around her, the wind swirled, His approval clear.


	5. The Legacy of Gabrielle Admuir

Giles Onasi sighed in relief as he shrugged into his favorite dragonhide jacket and ran an affectionate hand over the leather.  His wife Morgana had purchased the jacket for him, joking that their son had _actually_ chosen it by virtue of drooling all over the sleek leather.  He hadn’t taken it with him the night he’d snuck into the Auror Division – it was far too noticeable – which meant it had been spared the fate of his Auror robes.

The Auror inspected himself in a handy mirror, rubbing at the days-old stubble on his chin and sliding his wand into its holster, strapped, as always, to his right leg.  Except for his wand, he wouldn’t earn a second glance in a crowd of techies, which was just the way he liked it.  Frowning, Giles tugged the robes Grant had so thoughtfully packed for him partway out of the bag.  If they were going to clear Team One, they would need the evidence he’d found that night, but _he_ couldn’t get it himself, not now.

He left the suitcase in the guest room, but took the paper Grant had tucked in the front of the bag for him to read.  As he carried it, he glanced down and grimaced at the headline: _Veteran Auror Abducted From Death Bed!_

* * * * *

Sophie Lane swamped Roy with a hug as soon as he appeared, his hair still wet from his shower and a toothbrush in his mouth; he was caught off guard, but returned the hug.  After all, for _him_ , it had only been a day or so since the last time he’d seen her, but for _her_ , it had been a long, anxious month.  Over her shoulder, he spotted Clark with Izzy; his nephew grinned at him and tossed him a thumbs up as he bounced his baby sister.  An excited Emmy flitted and danced around the siblings, cheeping delightedly.

“Don’t you _ever_ scare us like that again, Roy,” Sophie scolded as she released him.

Roy pulled the toothbrush out with one hand and saluted her with the other.  “Yes, _ma’am_.”

Clark snickered, as did Shelley, but Sophie was unmoved as she stared her brother-in-law down.  “Ed approves of your next girlfriend,” she decided; he opened his mouth to protest and she arched a pointed brow.  “Unless you’d prefer it was _me_?” was the mock-sweet inquiry.

Dang.  So _that_ was how she corralled his brother.  Roy shook his head vigorously; he had a feeling Sophie could be _far_ more picky and prickly than his mother had _ever_ been.  Glancing down, Roy tugged at his new shirt and changed the subject.  “Thanks for the clothes, Sophie.”

Her eyes warmed, though amusement twinkled.  “They’re Ed’s,” she informed him.  “Fortunately, you two are about the same size.”  Turning, Sophie accepted a cup of coffee from Shelley, then looked back at her stunned brother-in-law.  “Now, what are we going to do about this situation.”

Roy was saved from answering when Giles stuck his head in the door.  “Are Parker’s niece and nephew up yet?” his fellow Auror asked.

“Alanna is,” Shelley replied.  “But Lance is still sleeping.  I can try to get him up if you want.”

Onasi shook his head.  “If he did what I _think_ he did, we’d better leave him alone,” was the grave response.  “Besides, as tough as those two are, this should be _our_ problem, not theirs.”

The two women looked like they completely agreed with Giles’ argument as he ducked back out of the room.  Roy trailed after his partner as the other man headed for the Wordsworths’ living room.  Once inside, Roy fixed his friend with a _Look_.  “What do you think the kid did?”

Giles’ expression twisted in an unfamiliar way and he rubbed at his chin, drawing a soft rasping sound from the stubble.  “I _think_ maybe Parker used all his magic to save you,” he explained quietly.  “I _think_ maybe his magic attached to you and that’s why the time freeze never ran out of power.”  Solemn brown eyes held Roy’s.  “And if I’m right about all of that, then I _think_ Lance pulled Parker’s magic off you last night.”

“And?”  Roy _really_ didn’t like the look in his partner’s eyes.

“And we need Parker back here if he did that.  Sooner the better.  If Lance _does_ have his uncle’s magic, his body can’t take it.  Not for long.”  Grimacing, Giles added the punchline.  “He can’t use his magic, either, or they’ll mix together.”

“What happens if they mix?” Roy questioned.

“I don’t know,” Giles admitted, “But I doubt it would be anything good.”

The two men were silent a moment, then Roy looked down at his hands, freshly healed thanks to his partner’s wandwork.  “Thanks.”  When Giles tilted his head, Roy flexed his fingers.  “For the hands.”

“Ahh.”  The other man’s eyes warmed.  “Good to know I’m not _completely_ useless.”

Roy responded to that by whacking Giles upside the head before he shook his own head and asked, “Do we have _any_ good news?”

A faint, wry grin touched the other man’s face as Giles absently adjusted his two dangling locks of brown hair and ran a hand through the rest of his hair.  “Yes.”

Roy waited, but Giles didn’t continue.  “ _And?_ ” Roy prompted, giving his partner a ‘hurry-up’ wave.

The grin vanished into hard determination.  “Team One is being framed.”  A breath.  “And I can prove it.”

* * * * *

The adults, Clark, and Alanna were all assembled in the living room.  Izzy was being looked after by the three Wordsworth sisters, who had all been sternly warned by their mother to play _gently_ and bring Izzy right to Sophie if she started to cry.  Claire promised to look after the baby, no matter what, a set to her jaw reminiscent of her father’s at his most obstinate.  Hovering next to Claire’s shoulder, Emmy chirped her own promise, somehow sounding just as determined.

With the little girls safely in another room, Giles paced back and forth in front of the rest of the group, his stance rigid and his eyes dark with unhappiness.  Abruptly, he stopped, then turned towards his audience.  “I know you want to start with Team One,” he began, “But I think we actually have to start earlier.”

“Earlier?” Roy asked, crossing his arms with a skeptical expression on his face.

“Yes,” Giles countered firmly.  “To be more specific, we need to start in the year 1993.”

His audience traded startled looks.  “And what,” Sophie inquired, “happened in 1993?”

The Auror grimaced.  “1993 was the year that a woman named Gabrielle Admuir was murdered by a man who’s never been caught.”  He shook his head.  “She wasn’t the _only_ one he killed, but she was different from all his other victims.”

“His first?” Roy questioned, tilting his head to the side as he tried to puzzle through the mystery.

A rough laugh.  “Hardly.”  Giles swallowed.  “But she was important enough that the police made a full court press to find out what happened to her.”

“They didn’t find anything, did they?” Shelley whispered.

“No,” Giles confirmed quietly.  “But that wasn’t their fault.  How were _they_ supposed to know that their prime suspect was a wizard?”  He cut off the burgeoning cries of indignation with a wave.  “From the file on Admuir’s murder, no one knows exactly _when_ she died, but two years after she was found, a techie facility in the United States was attacked.”

“By a wizard?” Roy offered.

Slightly shaggy locks flew as Giles turned sharply, pointing at his partner.  “Bingo.  Whoever it was, they used a number of Unforgivables and a type of dark magic that the American Unspeakables couldn’t identify.  Not back then and not now either.”

“Where was this?” Shelley asked.

A shrug.  “The report calls it Red Star, but there’s no other details.  Two survivors, both treated and _Obliviated_.”

“They swept a massacre under the rug?”  Sophie’s voice was indignant, but Giles shook his head.

“No, it was too big for that.  Too many dead.  Plus, a United States Senator was killed there, too,” he explained.  “The Unspeakables _were_ able to cover up the magical parts of the attack, though.”

Roy watched his friend pace.  “You think the two are connected?  Admuir’s murder and this Red Star massacre?”

Giles sighed and moved to a handy chair, sinking down and slumping into the chair.  “You know I’ve been in touch with a few Unspeakables, right?” he asked Roy.

“Yeah, one of ‘em helped out with that family curse thingamajig,” Roy replied.

A faint smile touched the Auror’s jaw.  “Right.”  He looked down, bracing his chin on his folded fingers.  “Right after the Academy mess went down, I found a file on my desk that my contact left for me.  I don’t know where he got it and I don’t _want_ to know, but it was a file that Admuir was putting together before her murder.  I tucked it in with the files I inherited from Brian and that was the end of it.  Until now.”

“And now?” Sophie questioned, tugging on her hair.

A grim smile.  “Now, I know for a _fact_ that the same wizard who killed her _also_ attacked Red Star.”  Giles sat forward, a fierce light in his eyes as he elaborated.  “Admuir was working for a government organization and she was investigating someone that _she_ believed was setting up a double-cross on her boss.”

Shelley frowned.  “A double-cross?”

The Auror nodded.  “This person was working _for_ her boss on an important project, but she was getting suspicious.  According to her files, she believed that her suspect intended to steal an advanced piece of technology that her employers were developing – the very same project her suspect was working on.  She was trying to get more proof when she was murdered.  In fact, that’s probably _why_ she was killed; she got too close to nailing Moffet.”

“What was he trying to steal, do you know?” Roy inquired.

Giles sighed heavily.  “When I first got the file, I didn’t, but I missed part of Brian’s files on my first read-through, back when Moffet popped up on our radar.  The night I was shot, I was going through the evidence they had against Team One and something about the aircraft our _real_ suspects used at both prisons caught my eye.  I pulled out Admuir’s file and finally spotted a note Brian had in _his_ file on the Admuir case.  Somewhere along the line, he managed to get ahold of a packet of pictures and blueprints that the investigating officers found in Admuir’s apartment.  From his note, he filed the packet in the official Auror file on Moffet and his criminal activities.  I got curious and went down to take a look.”

Roy tensed.  “What’d you find?”

* * * * *

_The Auror’s eyes were wide as he laid out the pictures from the file he’d found.  He didn’t have all the reports about the two prison breaks, but he’d bet his annual salary that he was looking at what had been used to accomplish the impossible feat.  His eyes fell on the largest image: a black and white craft that squatted on three wheels and managed to look both innocent and deadly all at once.  A huge double blade perched on its back and two of the wheels crouched below stubby wings, while the third peeked out from under the craft’s sculpted nose._

_Below the pictures, there were several pieces of paper.  Giles unfolded them, squinting at the carefully traced lines and words.  It_ looked _like the same craft from the pictures, with notes on its abilities and characteristics.  If he could take this to Commander Holleran…maybe they could use what he’d found to free Team One…_

* * * * *

Roy frowned at his partner’s description.  “Where’s all this stuff now?”

Giles looked down.  “Most of it is locked in my desk, under security wards that are keyed to me, you, and Simmons.”

“Simmons?” Roy blurted in surprise.

The other man lifted one shoulder.  “He was my…” the brunet head cocked, “…training officer?  Is that how you say it?”

Roy whistled low as he nodded.  “What about the photos and blueprints?”

“I was holding them when I was shot.  Don’t know what happened _after_ I was shot,” Giles reported quietly, his hands trembling ever so slightly.

Alanna cleared her throat.  As the adults turned, she lifted violet eyes to Giles and asked, “Auror Onasi, did you see who shot you?”

Giles grimaced.  “It was dark, so it’s a tossup if I’d recognize him or not.”  Brown eyes narrowed.  “But it was _not_ a member of Team One, Alanna.  I’d swear to it.”

Roy looked up at the ceiling, thinking hard.  “Before you got shot, did you find out what they had on Team One?”

His partner nodded.  “Simmons matched the bullets from the guards at McKean to Ed’s gun and the American Auror recovered Wordy’s phone from McKean’s landing pad.”  At the incredulous looks, Onasi shrugged.  “Way back when, the Americans were trying to update and modernize.  It was after Grindelwald’s War and there were some wizards who thought the Statute of Secrecy was outdated.  The modernization didn’t get far before it was shut down, but McKean still has the landing pad they built.  That’s what our subjects used to get in.”

“What about Azkaban?” Alanna inquired.

“Any evidence from there was processed by the Brits,” Onasi explained, “But Simmons _did_ say that explosives were used to blow the cell door at Azkaban.  Both ammo and explosives are missing from SRU inventory, plus, I think Simmons tried to nail down alibis for Team One and he couldn’t do it.”  Taking a deep breath, Giles added quietly, “For Simmons to charge Team One with _my_ attempted murder likely means a Team One weapon was used to shoot me, so there’s that too.”

Roy scowled heavily.  “ _That_ doesn’t sound good,” he muttered.  He leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers together as he worked through the information for several minutes.  Giles quietly waved the women silent, recognizing the look in his partner’s eyes: Roy was plotting.

Abruptly, the detective sat forward.  “So,” he said firmly, “We need to get _your_ evidence from the Auror Division and find out what happened to those photos and blueprints.”  Giles nodded.  “And,” Roy continued, “We need to get Team One’s weapons tested and rechecked against the forensic results.  And figure out what happened to their alibi, ‘cause they sure _should_ have one.”

His companions traded looks, then, one by one, indicated agreement.  Giles arched a brow at his friend.  “What’s your plan?”

Roy grinned, a devil-may-care look on his face.  “You got any robes in _my_ size?”

* * * * *

“So…” the Head Unspeakable murmured, “They are both alive.”  He glanced up at his subordinates, pleased when they nodded.  “And the mole?”

One wizard cleared his throat.  “We believe we’ve identified him, sir, but our evidence isn’t admissible in a Muggle courtroom.  Nor do we have jurisdiction to arrest him under our laws since all of his crimes have been committed on the Muggle side of the fence.”

“Have they?” the Head Unspeakable inquired pointedly.

His subordinates traded looks, then the second one replied, “Officially, the weapon used to attack Auror Onasi has been identified as Constable Braddock’s, sir.”

Their superior leaned back in his seat, regarding them seriously.  “Does our suspect have access to Constable Braddock’s weapon?”

“He may,” the first wizard replied.  “Then again, he may not.  We don’t know enough about the Muggle police unit to be sure.”

The white haired man was unimpressed.  “Well over three years of working with them and we _still_ do not have a complete understanding of their unit’s inner workings?”

The two wizards traded anxious looks, but neither answered.

The Head Unspeakable rose, his expression a thundercloud.  “Ensure that our two allies have no trouble whatsoever accomplishing their goals.  Beyond that, you two _morons_ will _stay out of their way_.”  He paused, studying them closely, then leveled them with a near lethal glare.  “And see to it that Heir Calvin’s magic remains _untainted_ by his cousin’s magic.”  _Or else._

The wizards fled before their superior’s wrath.  Once they were gone, the Head Unspeakable snorted disgust and moved to pull a drawer open.  Pulling a sheet of parchment out, he retrieved his quill and began to write.  While it was certainly true that Heir Calvin could not risk using his magic, that didn’t mean the lad was helpless…


	6. And Perhaps Has Already Landed

As the sun peeked through the prison windows, Wordy shifted and stretched as best he could, surprised that he’d actually managed to fall asleep after the dryad lady left.  His muscles protested the movement, drawing a grimace from the constable as several joints crackled and popped.  _Note to self: don’t sleep sitting up against a cold stone wall._

Sarge stirred on the stone bed and Wordy inspected him anxiously, swallowing his sigh of sheer relief as the sunlight confirmed that his boss was well on the way to recovery.  Even the worst of the bruises from the night before were faint and close to being gone.  Hazel eyes blinked open and squinted against the light.

“Morning, Sarge,” Wordy greeted quietly.

His voice hoarse and rasping, the other man replied, “Morning.”

Wordy cringed at the croak, but opted not to comment.  “You okay?”

The stocky man worked himself upright, his spine popping and crackling much like Wordy’s had.  “Better than last night,” he replied.  “Did the guards call a Healer?”

Oh.  Right.  Sarge had been unconscious by the time the dryad showed.  “Um, not exactly,” Wordy hedged.

The Sergeant’s gaze snapped to his subordinate, demanding answers.

Wordy shifted, searching for words to explain when they heard voices from outside their cell.  Loud, angry voices.  Wordy scrambled upright and moved to stand in front of his boss, his shoulders tense and set.  Looking out the front of the cell, Wordy was in prime position to see the cell block’s door swing open violently.

The first wizard who entered was loudly berating the guards behind him.  “…ot even had a _trial_ yet,” he roared angrily.  “And you incompetent _tontos_ **(2)** _attacked_ one of them?”

One of the guards spoke up, snapping out something in Spanish, but the American wizard was completely unimpressed by the argument, whatever it was.  “You had better _hope_ he’s still alive,” the wizard threatened, striding towards Wordy and Sarge’s cell.

Wordy crossed his arms and plastered his own unimpressed expression on his face as he sidled sideways to block the wizard’s view of the cell…or, more specifically, his Sergeant.  “Come back for round two?” he taunted as soon as the group drew closer.  “Easy when you’re beating an _unarmed_ man, isn’t it?”

One of the guards muttered something balefully, earning a sharp glare from the American.  The wizard inspected Wordy, dismissing him, then raised his voice so the entire group of prisoners could hear him.  “Which one of you is injured?”

Sam laughed scornfully from the next cell.  “You don’t even know who your guards beat up?” he questioned sarcastically.  “Some management style, there.”

“And it’s taken you _this_ long to come looking?” Jules tacked on, her voice a study in how to be as thoroughly unimpressed as humanly possible.  “For all _you_ know, your guards tossed a dead body in with one of us.”

Wordy bit back a smirk as the American blanched.  Behind him, Sarge was staying quiet, letting his team handle the talking.  Fine, he could do that…it was the _least_ he could do to apologize for being a jerk over the whole Roy Lane thing.

Outside, the American whirled on his guards, yelling at them in Spanish.  Wordy couldn’t understand any of the words, but judging from the mulish expressions, the guards weren’t pleased with their superior’s ranting.  A second guard spoke up, jabbing his finger at Wordy or maybe at his cell.

Though Wordy couldn’t hear his teammates clearly over the American’s angry tirade, he was fairly sure he could hear Spike quietly relating what he could understand to an eager Lou.  From the next cell over, he heard Sam and Ed plotting how to drag things out once the ranting stopped.

In the meantime, Wordy shifted enough to glance back at his Sergeant and frowned.

Sarge was making a silent request for water.

The constable looked out at the squabbling group of wizards, then back, tilting his head in a request for clarification.

Very softly, almost too soft to hear with the yelling outside, Sarge whispered, “Thirsty.”

Chagrin hit Wordy like a ton of bricks.  Of _course_ his boss was thirsty after the night he’d had.  And here his team was, dragging things out and making it worse.  Apology shone in his gray eyes, but Sarge tossed him an understanding smile.

Wordy looked out at the argument, which was rapidly reaching new heights and possibly setting a new record in how fast someone could yell and scold in Spanish.  “Hey!” he shouted.  “Yell at them on your own time!”

The American whipped around, his expression livid.  “ _Excuse me?_ ”

The constable crossed his arms and jerked his head towards his Sergeant.  “The guy they beat up last night needs some water,” he informed the wizard frostily.  “Try not to beat him half to death again while you’re getting that for him.”

The wizard stepped forward and Wordy moved aside enough for him to see the stocky man sitting on the cell’s pitiful excuse for a bed.  After a second, the wizard snorted.  “He doesn’t look very beat up to _me_.”

Wordy scowled in indignation, but one of the guards had also edged forward and he was staring at the Sergeant with wide and fearful eyes.  Hesitantly, he spoke to the American wizard and pointed past Wordy.  The American snapped something back and the guard shook his head at the response, pointing at Sarge again and speaking more forcefully.

After a minute of back and forth arguing, the American looked towards the patient Sergeant in his cell.  “My guard tells me that you know Spanish?”

“Some,” Sarge allowed, his voice raspy.  “I know Italian fluently, that’s what I used last night.”  At the incredulous look he got, Parker lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  “They’re both Romance languages.”

The guard spouted another phrase in his native language and Sarge’s eyes crinkled in laughter.  “He thinks my Spanish is extremely bad,” came the wry drawl.

The American flicked a glance at his subordinate and remarked, “ _Habló italiano anoche._ ”

Wordy swallowed a snort of laughter at the incredulous expression on the guard’s face.  “ _¿Italiano? ¿No español?_ ”

Sarge’s chuckle was hoarse.  “ _Sí_ ,” he called, loud enough for the guard to hear.

The guard’s expression turned sullen and he muttered something as he turned away.  Wordy kept his eyes on the American.  “Well?” he questioned, a challenge in his voice and on his face.

The wizard scowled.  “I’ll get your man some water,” he allowed before he and the guards left, the guards jabbering again and the American snarling back at them in displeasure.

Wordy looked back at his boss.  “Well, _that_ went well,” he quipped, a tiny grin emerging at his boss’s return smile.

* * * * *

Their breakfast, if it could be _called_ that, was far from appetizing.  Wordy forced it down nonetheless, grimacing at the taste and consistency of the sludge they’d been provided.  At least the sullen guards had come back with fresh water for Sarge.  Even better, the water bowl had some sort of charm on it that refilled it every time the water was gone.

Once the meal was over, the guards collected the trays, leaving only the water bowl, and departed, clearly unhappy that they’d been forced to feed their captives.  With a little creativity, Wordy and Sarge managed to get the water bowl through the window between their cell and the next one.  Sam and Ed passed the bowl onto Spike and Lou, then the two techs finagled the final hop to Jules.  The other direction wasn’t quite as easy, but the team managed to accomplish the return trip without breaking the bowl.

With the team’s thirst sated, the team settled down to wait, though Sarge quietly quizzed Wordy over the events of the night before.  When Wordy finished, the Sergeant shifted back against the cell wall, his hazel eyes narrowed in thought.

For _his_ part, Wordy was remembering a conversation he’d had with his boss the night after Roy and Giles had located a four-year-old Lance and rescued him from his kidnapper.  _When does it stop being chance?_   He hadn’t wanted to answer that particular question then and there was a part of him that _still_ didn’t want to answer it, but…

Helpless, at the end of his rope, he’d cried out for help and it had come.  There was no rational reason; not for that and not for _any_ of the miracles his team had had over the past several years, but somehow, he’d never questioned it before.  Just accepted it and moved on.  How stupid was _that_?

He must have made a sound because Sarge glanced up at him, a rueful look on his face.  “Took me a while to see it too, Wordy,” he remarked, somehow knowing _exactly_ what his constable was thinking about.

“To see what?” Ed questioned, drawing his teammates’ eyes up to where the team leader had managed to work his way up to the barred window between the cells.

Wordy spotted Sarge’s subtle ‘go-ahead’ gesture and gave his friend a wry look.  “Ed, what are the odds?” he demanded bluntly.  “That we’d make it this far at all, much less with a full team?”

Ed jerked back in surprise.  “What are you talking about?” he questioned, slightly incredulous.

The brunet constable looked down, sorting through his response.  “Think about it, Ed.  What if, what if we’d never found out about magic at all…what do you think would change?”

Sam snorted loudly.  “We wouldn’t be in this mess,” he opined loudly.

“But we wouldn’t have a full team,” Jules countered quietly from the far cell.  “Lou wouldn’t be here anymore.”

Dead silence draped the cell block.

But Wordy was just getting started.  “Or, hey, Ed, what if we _had_ found out about magic, but not from Sarge’s kids?  Where would we be _then_?”

Ed made a face.  “Say Lou’s still alive in this one?”

Wordy considered, then nodded firmly.  “Sure.”

It was Lou who spoke up.  “Sam and Spike wouldn’t be here,” he concluded.

“How you figure, buddy?” Spike questioned in surprise.

“I got snatched by my old unit and you came after me,” Sam cut in before Lou could answer.  “Without the kids, the rest of you wouldn’t have made it in time, plus…”  The sniper swallowed hard.  “Spike, I can remember you getting me off that altar…you wouldn’t have had any armor to stop Ryan from cursing you.  We only _got_ that armor ‘cause of the kids and what happened with Sarge.”

“And me,” Wordy spoke up.  “Anderson had me cold when I went off by myself to find Claire and Amanda Simmons.”  He shuddered.  “He disarmed me and he was about to kill me, but all of a sudden, I had my sword and shield.  They just _appeared_ , right out of thin air.”  A breath.  “Claire told me later it was right after she wished, as hard as she could, that I had a weapon.”

His team whistled and Sarge’s expression turned considering.  “No experience, no training,” he murmured, almost to himself.  “Just a wish.”

Jules spoke up again.  “I would have been shot during the City Hall Sniper incident,” she announced firmly.  “The only reason he missed was Alanna and her Animagus form.”

Wordy shivered, a chill crawling up his spine at the image of Sam crouched over Jules as she bled out.

Sarge cleared his throat significantly.  “Can’t say for sure, but the time I got snatched by Haley’s boyfriend could’ve gone a whole lot worse,” he mused.  “If I’d responded to Kevin differently…”  He shrugged, but there were shadows in his eyes.  Those shadows deepened as the Sergeant added, “And in another world, it could’ve been _me_ who called Toth in.”

“No way,” Spike refuted.  “You wouldn’t do that.”

Jules disagreed.  “Spike, we _did_ think it was Sarge,” she pointed out.  “We thought he did it for the team.”  Her focus changed.  “Wordy, what’s the point of bringing all that up?  Why debate what didn’t happen?”

Wordy shook his head, wishing they could do this face-to-face.  “Don’t you _get_ it, guys?” he burst out.  “How many times have we been in a situation that looked like it had no way out, but then, all of sudden, there _was_ a way out?  How often does that have to happen before it _can’t be chance_ _anymore?_ ”

Spike audibly shuddered.  “The odds would be too slim,” he muttered, though they all heard him.  “Prohibitive.”

“Someone’s stacking the deck,” Sam put in, his own voice thoughtful.  “If this were a card game, we’d be all over the dealer for cheating.”

Sarge laughed at that.  “Inches and seconds,” he agreed, leaning against the wall.

Wordy felt a shudder run up his back.  Separately, each incident, on its surface, looked at least _theoretically_ possible, even if the odds were slimmer than slim.  But put them _together_ …

Lou’s voice rang out as the moment hung, shivering right on the edge of _something_.  “Last night,” he said firmly.  “I know _I_ was praying for a miracle.  Anyone else?”

Silence, then Wordy tentatively called, “Me.”

“I was,” Spike admitted, overlapping with Sam’s, “Here.”

Jules called her own agreement and Wordy looked up at Ed, still lurking in the window between their cells.  Ed didn’t speak, but when he felt Wordy’s gaze, he nodded.

“And we got one,” Lou whispered.  “Wordy, man, what’d she say before she left?”

Wordy wanted to laugh, because it summed everything up in one neat package.  “She said, ‘Aslan is on the move,’ ” he reported.

* * * * *

The words seemed to have their own power as they moved through the air.  Spike shivered at the unspoken implications and stared as Lou looked up at the ceiling, his forehead scrunched in thought.  The bomb tech arched a brow as Lou considered all the angles and came to a conclusion.

“Lou?”

Dark eyes were bright with suppressed excitement.  “Spike, it fits,” he hissed.  “Think about it…we _saw_ Him in the Netherworld.”

The shivers were getting worse.  “One word,” Spike breathed.  “And that demon guy was _done for_.”

Lou nodded eagerly as Jules poked her head out of her cell, which sat at a right angle to the other cells.  “The hag I met, Granny Cantril, she called me a ‘Lion-touched’,” the brunette negotiator offered.

Ed’s own voice rose, though his words were slow, steady.  “Last month.”  The group stilled, all heads turning towards their team leader.  “The witness Spike and I interviewed.  One point there, she stared at us…”

“…we almost called an ambulance,” Spike put in, remembering.

“Then she said something about us being ‘claimed’ by a god she hadn’t encountered before,” Ed finished smoothly.

“Huh?” Lou questioned, giving Spike a bewildered look.

Spike nodded soberly.  “It was freaky, Lou,” he explained.  “She said she saw a white lion rampant on our arms and there was this wind right after she said it.  Indoors!”  The bomb tech leaned back against the wall, thinking hard.  It fit, it all fit.  “Makes you wonder why us?” he mused, shocked when his Sergeant started laughing.  The raven cast a quizzical look in the direction of Sarge and Wordy’s cell.  “Sarge?”

“I’ve been asking that same question for months now, Spike,” Sarge replied, laughter still echoing.  “After all, what would Aslan want with a broken down alcoholic failure like me?”

Indignation surged and Spike saw the same thing on Lou’s face.  Almost as one, the team yelled back, “ _You’re not!_ ”

“Yes, I am, team,” Sarge countered, no give at all in his voice.  “It took me a very long time to put the pieces together, but I’m almost one-hundred percent sure that Arthur Calvin arranged for my rehab after I broke down.  Which means, without _mio nipotes_ , this team wouldn’t exist because I’d be dead or on the streets.”

Dead silence draped the room at his words, but he wasn’t done.  “Guys, that means I was – _we were_ – picked out _long_ before any of us ever heard of the SRU or Team One.  _None_ of this was ever coincidence or chance.  Not my alcoholism, not my family leaving me, not even the fact that _mio nipotes_ didn’t show up until I’d gotten my life back together enough to take them in.”

“It was all planned out,” Ed whispered.

“Or worked around,” Sarge mused.  “Like we would work around a subject too stubborn to realize we’re trying to help.”

Spike swallowed hard at the analogy.  “So,” he raised his voice, “Any time we weren’t thinking or we did something stupid, things…pushed us back on track?”

“I think you’ve got it, Spike,” his boss confirmed.  “A letter, outta nowhere, in kid’s handwriting, pushes me out the door before I can drink myself to death.”  The team traded horrified looks in the background.  “Right when I needed a place to go, a rehab center gets dropped in my lap; I didn’t even have to wait to get in.  And I’d bet that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Just the tip…  Spike’s mind boggled at that.  Except…if they were dealing with Someone who could work in the tiny, almost nonexistent span of a _second_ , then why _not_ in years?  Why not have the foundations for their team laid _long_ before they’d had even an inkling of what they were meant to do, meant to be?

The two friends traded long, awed looks.  “Damn,” Lou whispered.  “That’s one hell of a theory, isn’t it, Spike?”

“Yeah,” Spike whispered back.  “What’s even crazier is that I believe it.”

A rueful look.  “Me, too, buddy,” Lou acknowledged, looking past Spike to Jules, who was nodding at both of them.  “Me, too.”

And, judging from the utter stillness around them, the rest of their team believed it, too.

_Aslan is on the move._

 

[2] Spanish for ‘fools’


	7. Disgrace to the Uniform

Roy Lane strolled into Auror Division headquarters completely unnoticed and ignored.  He grinned to himself as he made his way through the busy office towards his partner’s office.  As long as he acted like he belonged and knew exactly where he was going, he didn’t merit so much as a second glance from the busy Aurors around him.

Whistling to himself, Roy pushed the door to Giles’ office open and stepped inside.  The blond man already inside the office looked up with what could only be called a smirk.  “Close the door and your mouth, Lane,” he instructed, his smirk growing.

Roy slid the door shut behind him and swallowed hard.  So much for an easy in and out.  In front of him, on the desk, he could see the files he’d come to get.  But Giles had said they were locked up…

Simmons tapped the files, his expression thoughtful.  “Giles is very thorough, I’ve always appreciated that.  Even when he was a rookie, he’d always get his Snidgets **(3)** in a row before he made a move he couldn’t take back.”  Chagrin showed.  “I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me after my rookie got shot.”

The detective crossed his arms.  “Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve,” he retorted.  “You did and now Team One’s in McKean.”  Defiance blazed as Roy tilted his chin up.  “You gonna help us fix it or not?”

“Then, my rookie _is_ still alive?”  Hope glittered in Simmons’ eyes.

Roy nodded once, but couldn’t help twisting the knife.  “Thanks to the kids _you_ helped chase out of the wizarding world.”

Simmons snorted once, looking down.  “Irony.  It does love to bite us in the rear, doesn’t it, Lane?”  He straightened, gesturing to the files in front of him.  “Everything Brian and Giles put together on the Admuir murder case.”  A ghost of a smile.  “Even the information Giles pulled from the archives _that_ night.”

Roy jerked back in surprise.  “Giles said he was carrying that when he was shot.”

“Yes,” Simmons agreed, circling the desk with a narrow, angry look on his face.  “The shooter took most of it, but missed a sheet that ended up under his leg.  Between _that_ and the notes Giles made before he went down to the archives, I found the originals.”

“Originals…he was carrying _copies!_ ”

Anger vanished in amusement.  “Of course he was, Lane.  As I said, my rookie _always_ has his Snidgets in a row before he makes a move.”  More amusement showed on Simmons’ face as he regarded Roy’s appearance.  “And Lane?  Next time, get robes of your own; you’re too tall for Giles’ robes and his shoulders are wider than yours.”

Roy flushed bright red and plucked at the uncomfortable robes.  “We needed something fast,” he muttered.  Looking up, he met the Senior Auror’s eyes.  “I thought you hated Team One.”

Simmons looked away, not speaking for a moment.  When he spoke, his voice was quiet.  “Lane, for _us_ , the witch hunts might as well have happened _yesterday_.  We live in fear, cowering under our beds, hiding from the day our world’s secrecy is torn asunder with no way back.”  Dark eyes swept back.  “Then your brother and his team blundered into our world, refusing to accept our ways and traditions, demanding that we _change_ to suit _them_ and not the other way around.  Brian pushed back, pushed back hard, and look what happened.”

Roy leaned back on his heels.  “I heard Team One _liked_ him.”

Simmons snorted, pacing past Roy to the opposite wall.  “The _second_ time around, Lane.  First time around, he and Parker butted heads so many times I’m surprised Brian didn’t end up as bald as Parker by the time it was all over.”

“Oh.”  Roy considered that.  “What changed?”

The blond Auror turned.  “They beat my squad.  Easily.  Without magic.  After that, Locksley let them do as they pleased.  I wasn’t happy and I’m still not.  We can’t depend on your people, Roy.  Not if that means _we_ don’t do _our_ jobs.”

Roy started to bristle at the implied insult to his brother and his brother’s team, but when Simmons finished, he drew back, frowning in confusion.  Carefully, he clarified, “You mean, you don’t want wizards to become dependent on us ‘Muggles’?”

The shorter man tilted his head, then nodded once.  “That’s a fair way to put it,” he allowed.  Then his gaze sharpened.  “But none of that means I’m going to turn a blind eye and let your brother’s team take the fall for something they didn’t do.”

With a flick of his wand, Simmons organized the messy files on Giles’ desk into one neat stack, then levitated the stack and walked to the door.  Over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll walk you out, Lane.  I need to talk to my rookie anyway.”

Roy followed.  “He’s not a rookie anymore,” the detective pointed out.

Simmons flashed a smirk.  “He’ll always be _my_ rookie to me, Lane.”  As the two men headed out, the wizard flicked a glance at Roy’s face and determined stride.  “You know,” he murmured, “For a Muggle, you’re not half bad, Lane.”

Roy tossed a return glare.  “You guys don’t want to be afraid of us, Simmons, but you insult us every time you talk to us.  You want _our_ respect, start by respecting _us_.”  He strode ahead of the Auror, not noticing Simmons’ startled blink at his back, nor the blond’s rueful head shake at the truth of Roy’s words.

* * * * *

Winnie was talking to an SRU member when Giles walked in, so he nodded towards the dispatcher and headed for Commander Holleran’s office, Ed Lane’s backup weapon a comfortable weight on the back of his belt, under his jacket.  He rapped sharply against the door, smiling at the call to “Enter!”

When he pushed the door open, he grinned openly at the shocked expression on the commander’s face.  “Commander Holleran,” he greeted.

“Detective Onasi,” Holleran returned, rising from his desk.  “It is _very_ good to see you back on your feet.”

“Good to _be_ back on my feet,” Giles replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.  The commander regarded him, a question in his eyes, and Giles shook his head.  “Sir, I’m not sure if I could identify my attacker, but it was _not_ a member of Team One.”

Commander Holleran’s breath came out in a relieved huff and he sat back down at his desk.  “I assume you’re here to help clear my team?”

“I’m going to make my best effort, sir,” Giles acknowledged.  “I’d like to take all of Team One’s weapons for forensics testing; Roy mentioned that someone could have tampered with the computer database to get a false positive, whatever that means.”

“Roy is back on his feet, too?” Holleran questioned.  “You _have_ been busy, Detective.”

Giles grinned again.  “Not me, sir.  Parker’s kids pulled it off.”

The commander whistled under his breath, then reached down to a drawer in his desk.  “I agree with Roy; given Dr. Moffet’s known ability to penetrate our computer system in the past, a detailed recheck of the forensic evidence is warranted, even expected given the charges against Team One.  I’ve also given some thought to the situation here.”

“The inventory discrepancies, sir?”

“Yes, that and the transcript,” Holleran agreed, pulling two large plastic binders out.  He stood up again and Giles followed suit as the commander cleared an area on his desk to lay the first binder down.  The commander tapped it.  “ _This_ is the binder that was pulled from our archives the day Inspector Simmons came to interview Team One and I’ve labeled it as such.”  He pulled the inner binder out of its plastic and metal cover and opened it up to reveal a standard SRU transcript cover page, complete with Sergeant Parker’s signature.  Without a word, Holleran flipped through the pages, revealing reams of blank paper.

Giles swallowed.  “That makes it look like Team One not only _doesn’t_ have an alibi, but that they tried to cover it up.”

“Yes,” Holleran replied with a nod.  “Now, take a look at the second one.”  He flipped the first binder back to its cover page, then tugged the second binder out of its cover and opened it up.

Onasi leaned in close, comparing the two cover pages carefully.  “Same writing, same incident number, same badge number,” he observed.

“Correct.”  The commander reached down and flipped to the second page of the binder.  Text covered the page and Giles could see, quite clearly, the beginning stages of a hot call as Winnie started the transcript by hitting the alarm and calling Team One in from their workout.

Wonder entered the Auror’s eyes as he flipped carefully through the pages, filled with text that detailed the call’s progress.  “Where did you get this?”

“Dr. Moffet tripped _himself_ up, Detective Onasi,” the commander returned smugly.  When Onasi looked up, bewilderment in his eyes, the commander gestured to the binder.  “After the evaluations, Dr. Toth insisted that copies of all the transcripts, from every hot call Team One takes, be sent to his office for further analysis.  I contacted him directly and informed him that our copy had been compromised.  He was kind enough to have a duplicate made of _his_ copy and sent it back to us.”

“He still has a copy?”

“Yes,” Holleran confirmed.  “My team is being framed, Detective Onasi.  I won’t risk losing _any_ evidence that can exonerate them.”

Giles nodded thoughtfully.  “What about the inventory?  Or the duty sheets?  Was it all just a mix up?”

Regret shone in Holleran’s dark eyes.  “No, Detective, we truly _are_ missing ammunition and explosives, along with some miscellaneous climbing equipment.”  He drew in a breath.  “As for the duty sheets, I’m starting to suspect tampering.”

“Tampering?” the Auror hissed.  “How?”

“That I haven’t nailed down,” Commander Holleran rumbled.  “However, the transcript serves as confirmation that Team One was indeed on duty that day.  Which makes the duty sheets a non-issue and calls the missing inventory into question.”

Onasi eyed the taller, older man.  “What do you mean?”

Commander Holleran rubbed his chin.  “In theory, any member of any SRU team could be responsible for the missing inventory.  The only reason to implicate Team One in the theft was the transcript on file.”  He waved to the first transcript.  “With the transcript no longer in doubt, the inventory evidence become interesting, but it’s far more of a stretch to tie it directly to Team One.  Do you know where Team One stores their service weapons?”

“Yes, sir,” Giles replied.  “It was part of our crash course.  Roy and I, I mean.”

“Go collect them and I’ll write out an authorization for them to all be test fired and checked against the evidence submitted by Inspector Simmons.”

Onasi nodded and headed out of the commander’s office.  He strode into the atrium and angled around towards the ramp that would lead to the locker rooms and the equipment cage.  He heard a sound from his left, but called, “Maybe later, Winnie.”

The click of a gun brought the Auror snapping around, his right hand flying back and yanking Ed’s backup gun out of his back mounted holster.  In a blur, the gun was up and pointed at a man in an SRU uniform, who was holding his gun to Winnie Camden’s head.

“Let her go!” Giles snapped, shifting his stance to support his weapon better.

The man’s eyes were wild and his face was twisted with hatred.  “You should be _dead_ , _wizard!_ ”

Winnie cried out in objection, but he was holding her too tightly for her to fight his grasp.

Giles arched a brow in lieu of shrugging.  “I’m a hard man to kill,” he retorted, raising his voice in hopes of attracting attention.  He studied the hostage-taker and smirked, just a bit.  “Guess you’re not much of a shot.”

Winnie’s eyes widened in shock as her captor snarled in fury.  “I _saw_ you go down,” he snapped.  “I _know_ you were dead.”  One of the dispatcher’s hands moved and four fingers extended.

Onasi cocked his head to the side, sure that Winnie was trying to tell him something, but not entirely sure _what_.  “Yeah, well, like I said, you’re a lousy shot,” he taunted Winnie’s captor.  One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug.  “So, why blow your cover over me?” the Auror questioned, trying to buy time.

In his peripheral vision, he spied Team Three’s members getting into position, but their target was shielded by Winnie’s dispatcher desk and the station’s construction, which put Team Three on a lower level.  The rogue officer was holding Winnie too close to his own body for Team Three to risk a Scorpio shot.  Ironically, the best shot in the station…was his own position.

The man sneered.  “You _wizards_.  So high and mighty, so sure that anyone without magic isn’t worth a _thought_.”

“You’re a Squib,” Giles concluded.  Dang.  The Auror Division should’ve checked for any more SRU Squibs after Team One had gotten their Auror badges or after Wordsworth had turned out to be a Squib.  If _nothing_ else, they should’ve checked when Team Three had earned _their_ badges.

The other shook his head.

“No?” Onasi questioned, then he cocked his head the other way.  “Squib-born, then.”

A harsh, grating laugh.  “Not even _that_ , _wizard_ ,” came the return taunt.  “My aunt was a Muggleborn witch.”

Okaaaay…  “And how does that lead to you taking your colleague here hostage?” Giles inquired, grateful for all the time Roy had made him put in at the range.  Otherwise, he’d wouldn’t have been able to hold his stance as long as he had.  Then, like lightning, he _knew_.  The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place, as neatly as if he’d been given a map.  “Merlin’s beard, your aunt was one of Moffet’s victims!” he blurted, eyes wide.

For the first time, the other hesitated.  “Moffet’s victims?” he repeated, before shaking his head.  “No, no, no, you’re just trying to trick me!”

“Left out in the desert to die of thirst?” Giles questioned, watching as the other’s gun bobbed in reply.  He swallowed hard.  “Brutal.  And wrong.  I don’t know what _he_ told you, but it was him.  He didn’t just do it to your aunt, either, he did it to lots of other Muggleborn witches, too.  And Muggle women.  He doesn’t care about you.  Doesn’t care about justice.  Just about himself.”  The Auror let his conviction blaze as more pieces fell into place.  “ _You_ stole the explosives and ammunition from the inventory!  _You_ tampered with the duty roster!  _You_ were the one who put that runic bracelet on Wordsworth, weren’t you?”

“It was worth it!” the officer exploded.  “They were working with _your kind_ , putting _all of us_ at risk!  They had to be stopped!”  His expression contorted again.  “You got lucky, _wizard_.  That drug I dosed you with in your stupid _wizard_ hospital should’ve finished the job.”

The Auror swallowed hard, remembering the syringe Parker’s kids had found under his bed.  “Well,” he quipped as lightly as he could, “I guess a pair of wild cards ruined your plan.”

Winnie’s jaw almost dropped as she put the pieces together herself.  Slowly, carefully, she mouthed, ‘Wild Magic?’ and Giles dipped his chin a fraction.  Then he laughed, his tone bitter.  “You turned your back on everything you believe in,” he accused.  “You’re a disgrace to that uniform you’re wearing.  But, you know, you made one mistake here today.”

“What’s that?” the rogue sneered, holding his gun tight against Winnie’s head.

The Auror smiled viciously.  “You shoot her, I shoot you.  But,” he shrugged nonchalantly.  “No big loss, she’s just a Muggle.  Like you said, hardly worth the bother.”

Winnie’s eyes widened in hurt and shock, but Giles’ words accomplished _precisely_ what he wanted.  The rogue SRU constable snarled in fury, bringing his gun away from Winnie’s head to point at the Auror.

A gunshot rang out.

Winnie cringed as her captor’s arm pulled away and he fell backwards, his gun spilling out of his hand as he hit the ground, his eyes staring and a hole between them.  Then she looked up at Onasi as he let Ed Lane’s gun drop away from where its target had been, his breath coming out in a _whoosh_.  Their eyes met again and she understood; he’d bluffed her captor into giving him an opening.

“He’s Team Four,” she whispered.  “Their bomb tech.”

“Yeah?” Giles whispered back, walking forward, his expression blank.  He halted, staring at the man who’d shot him, then he shook his head.  “He’s Moffet’s inside man.”

 

[3] The Golden Snidget is a small, fat, round bird that flies like a hummingbird; it is able to fly in any direction with remarkable speed and agility.


	8. Crippled Gryphon

The sleek black and white helicopter slipped past McKean’s wards, just as it had before.  Once inside them, it turned for the landing pad, still unguarded and open.  Without attracting any notice at all, the chopper lowered to the pad, its wheels extending and lightly tapping the ground.  The blades on its back continued to whirl as the right door _hissed_ open, discharging its four passengers.  Once all four were out, one of them turned back and shoved the door closed.  The helicopter rose from the ground, then flitted sideways so its pilot could watch the coming show.

The Obscurus bound to the craft growled unhappily, but Moffet stroked the panel.  “There, there, my dear,” he murmured.  “Once this is done, we will show the _world_ what you can do, I promise.  All those who turned on you will pay.”

Below, Julian Anderson led the way into the prison, glee glittering in his eyes at the prospect of revenge against the arrogant Muggles who’d ruined his life.  It was easy for the former Auror to skirt the guard patrols and lead his fellow escapees to the correct cell block.  They paused outside and Loki lifted his wand, quickly casting a series of wards and silencing spells around the cell block.

Then the escapees entered the cell block, sneering as the Muggles rose to their feet inside their cells.  Anderson swaggered forward.  “Well, well, well, what have we _here_?” he jeered.  “Seven little Muggles, all ripe for the slaughter.”  None of the Muggles cowered, a fact that drew a slight frown as the former Auror turned away.  “But let’s not rush,” he purred.  “We have _all_ the time in the world, don’t we, gentlewizards?”

* * * * *

Donna Sabine shook her head as she and Auror Onasi entered the forensics lab with Team One’s service weapons.  She spoke to the lab technician, gesturing at the box of weapons her companion was hefting and requesting that all of them be test fired and checked against evidence from two shootings.

“This will take a day,” the technician reported.

Onasi leaned forward with a growl.  “We don’t _have_ a day,” he snapped.  “We need this evidence checked _now_ or a group of good men and women are going to be put on _trial_ for a crime they didn’t commit.”  When the technician looked unimpressed, the Auror added, “A group of good _cops_.”

“Please,” Donna pleaded quietly.  “They’re our friends and they’re in trouble.  We caught one of the people trying to frame them an hour ago, but we need to recheck the forensic evidence in case the database was tampered with.”

The lab technician looked through the box of guns, then sighed and nodded.  “All right, I’ll get it done, but it will still take a few hours.”

“We’ll make it work,” Donna promised.  She cast a look at the Auror behind her as the technician left.  “Quite a scene,” she drawled, leaning against the counter and studying the brunet closely.  “Nice shot, by the way.”

Brown eyes darkened.  “Thanks,” Onasi replied stiffly.  “Ed and Roy taught me.”

Silence draped the room, then Donna cleared her throat.  “So.  What the heck has Team One gotten into _this_ time?”

* * * * *

Greg was unsurprised when he and Wordy were dragged out of their cell by the fugitives, who were laughing and jeering at his entire team.  He was pinned to the wall next to Jules’ cell by Loki as Anderson hauled Wordy over to the constable’s half-brothers and forced him to his knees.

“Rudolphus and Rastaban Lestrange,” Anderson announced grandly, waving at Wordy, whose jaw was set, “I give you your brother, Kevin Wordsworth.”

Rudolphus’s teeth bared in vicious glee.  “So,” he drawled, pacing around Wordy, “ _You’re_ the uppity _Squib_ who thinks he can steal our family.”

Wordy wasn’t backing down.  “And your father was the miserable excuse for a human being who _raped_ my mother.”

The Death Eater sneered.  “Who cares what happens to some stupid Muggle?”  Casually, Rudolphus kicked Wordy’s side and tossed him at Rastaban.  “Hold him.”

Rastaban snickered as he yanked Wordy up on his knees again and held him in place.  Rudolphus pulled a wicked looking dagger from his belt and paced back and forth in front of Wordy, enjoying the fact that Wordy’s eyes never left the dagger.

“Did you know, Squib, that goblin-made weapons absorb anything that strengthens them?”  Without waiting for a reply, Rudolphus made a show of inspecting his weapon, though he never touched the edge.  “My wife, Morrigan **(4)** rest her soul, left me this dagger.”  His smile, already cruel, grew sadistic.  “The poison in the blade is not lethal, Squib, but…” the sentence hung and Greg saw his constable go several shades paler.

Almost without warning, Rudolphus lashed out with the dagger, slashing through the thin prison robes and biting into Wordy’s chest.  The constable’s eyes went wide as the blade cut straight across, then he screamed as he was tossed to the ground by Rastaban.  Rudolphus roared with laughter and Greg fought against the magic that held him, helpless, against the wall.  His team, just as helpless, cried out Wordy’s name; Ed even rammed his shoulder into the bars keeping him from his friend.

“Do you like that, Squib?” Rudolphus inquired, waving to his brother to haul Wordy up again.  He crouched down, laughing as Wordy cringed away from the dagger, panting in both fear and pain.  “You see, the poison eats away at your skin and nerves, but it’s very…slow.  Oh, you can feel it,” Greg fought harder at the agony on Wordy’s face, “but it truly doesn’t cause much damage.”  Blood seeped from the superficial cut and Wordy gasped as if the blood itself was burning him.  “Ah, yes, I almost forgot,” Rudolphus snickered.  “The blood from the wound is tainted with the poison as well.”

Rising, the Death Eater gestured to his brother again.  Rastaban yanked the prison robes off, leaving Wordy’s chest and back bare.  Then Rastaban shoved the brunet constable face down on the stone, his eyes alight with joy at the agonized yell Wordy couldn’t suppress.

“Leave him alone!” Ed yelled, ramming his shoulder into the bars again.

Anderson sneered, stalking closer to the tall, lean team leader.  “Oh, you’ll have your turn, _Constable_ Lane, never fear.”  He spread his hands, pasting mock sorrow on his face.  “But business before pleasure as they say.”

Ed offered up his opinion of what Anderson could do with his ‘business’ in _very_ explicit terms.  The former Auror laughed and pointedly turned his back on the team leader, even as Sam rammed his own shoulder into the bars and yelled at the top of his lungs, trying to attract attention.

* * * * *

The lab technician came out of the lab, shuffling through his results.  “Okay, did all the test fires,” he announced, setting the papers down on the counter.  “Ran the comparison from the shooting four days ago first.  No match to any of the test fired weapons.”

“No match?” Donna pressed.  “The database matched it to Braddock’s service weapon.”

The technician shook his head.  “Yeah, I got the same thing, but I compared the serial numbers and they don’t match.”

Donna’s eyes widened.  “So whose gun is under Braddock’s name?”

“The serial number on one of the guns you gave me is a match to another SRU member’s weapon.  A Norman Cohn.”

Sabine went pale as a ghost.

* * * * *

Greg struggled harder to get loose as Rudolphus used his poisoned dagger to carve up Wordy’s back.  Wordy howled, but couldn’t even thrash, thanks to a spell that Rastaban was holding on him that paralyzed everything save his vocal cords.  The brothers were roaring with laughter as Rudolphus worked, wielding the dagger with little flourishes.

In the cells, Greg’s teammates were yelling as loudly as they could, trying to get attention, as well as attempting to ram down the bars, but Greg suspected the fugitives had silencing spells up around the entire cell block.  Next to the Sergeant, Loki’s eyes were slightly disgusted, but he didn’t move to interfere with the Lestrange brothers’ ‘fun’.  Anderson, on the other hand, was enjoying every howl, whimper, and scream that came from Wordy, chortling almost as much as the Lestranges were.

Suddenly, the pressure keeping Greg pinned vanished and he collapsed on the ground.  Before he could surge up and to his constable’s defense, Loki grabbed him.  “I’m bored,” he announced.  “Give the rest of us a turn to play with the Muggles.”

There was one last scream from Wordy, then Rudolphus drew back.  He offered the dagger, but Loki shook his head in refusal.  “No, no, we mustn’t make things too obvious,” the raven wizard sneered.  “The same thing, over and over again?  Boring.”  He glanced down at Greg.  “I have another idea.”

Anderson’s face lit up.  “Oh?” he purred, stepping closer.  “Do tell.”

“Easier to do,” Loki countered, raising his wand and casting a spell that pinned Greg in place.  A smirk.  “ _Bestia Mutation Corpus Et Animus Non Magica_ **(5)**,” he cast, a beam of white light leaping from the tip of his wand to strike the Sergeant.

Greg grimaced as tingles ran over his body and he was released from the first spell.  As the tingles increased, he shifted to stand, to reach Wordy, then Greg cried out and collapsed as a bone gave way in his chest.  More followed rapidly and pain filled the Sergeant’s awareness as his bones, one-by-one, tore themselves asunder.  Just as he felt as if he couldn’t take any more pain, the sensation changed as the remnants of his bones started to heat from within.  Another scream tore itself free from his throat as his bones melted and reformed.  He felt his entire body ripple, then awareness was torn away as a screech of agony and fury erupted.

* * * * *

His back was on fire and his chest was scarcely any better, but Wordy still automatically struggled against the Lestranges’ grip as his boss collapsed with a yell of pain.  Magic was running over his entire body, its light growing more intense as Loki stepped away from the fallen Sergeant and sauntered to the far wall.

“You may wish to let your captive go before it finishes,” Loki advised the Lestranges.  “There’s no telling what will happen when my spell completes itself.”

An instant later, Wordy was shoved down to the ground by one of his ‘brothers’ before they followed their fellow escapee.  The constable tried to push himself up, but the fiery inferno of his back sent him back down with another cry of pure agony.  Half his team was calling his name, the other half calling Sarge’s as the magic wrapped around the struggling Sergeant.  Wordy forced his arms to cooperate and pushed up again as Sarge’s second scream ripped the air.  But it sounded different, as if Sarge wasn’t entirely human any more.  “Sarge!”

Wordy was watching when it happened, when that last scream came out as a screech of outrage, agony, and something…predatory.  The magic faded away as Sarge slumped to the ground; Wordy’s jaw dropped.

A gryphon was lying less than two meters away from him.  His wings were splayed out on either side of him and Wordy could tell they were crippled, but not from an injury…the gryphon had been _born_ with crippled wings.  Never able to fly, not even able to glide.  No _wonder_ Sarge was terrified of heights…there had always been a part of him that knew his wings were crippled and feared trying to _use_ those crippled wings.

Wordy tore his attention away from the wings to look at the rest of the gryphon.  Massive eagle talons were mounted on the front legs, which were distinctly lion.  The lion’s fur was tan on the underbelly and a much darker tan, almost brown for the rest.  His wings and eagle feathers were as brown as the remnants of his hair.  The eagle head was a mix of brown and gray feathers.  Though the brown dominated, there _was_ a ring around the top where the feathers were a mix of white and gray, not even a single brown feather peeking through the silvered hues.  The gryphon wasn’t bald at all, a concession, Wordy suspected, to the fact that the gryphon _should_ have been able to fly.  The feathered, furry ears on the eagle head flicked forward, as if the gryphon was listening to his surroundings.  The constable held as still as he could, unable to help noticing that the hooked eagle beak looked sharp and vicious.

Then the gryphon’s eyes opened, revealing hazel eyes the same shade as Sarge’s.  With a challenging growl-screech, the animal rose to his feet, his wings folding closed as he moved.  A lion tail, mounted with tail feathers, arched upwards, then flicked down.  Wordy suppressed a gulp as he spied lithe, aerodynamic lion legs and rear paws that undoubtedly hid honed razor claws.  And even worse, there was no trace of humanity in the gryphon’s fixed eagle eyes as he regarded his surroundings.

“Greg.”

Trust Ed to try to reach their boss anyway.  Wordy tried to edge away, but back and chest erupted in fresh pain and he couldn’t hold back a cry.  The gryphon’s head snapped around, focusing on Wordy, and he crouched with an eager hiss, ears flicking back as he spotted his defenseless prey.

_I am so dead._

* * * * *

“The other serial numbers,” Donna barked.  “Do any of them match to officers who _aren’t_ on SRU Team One?”

The technician frowned, but flipped through his paperwork.  “One of them, yes,” he observed.  “I have the name right here, Constable Sabine.”  He paused at one page in particular, scrutinizing it.  “Ahhh, here we are.  The serial number is registered to an Inspector Brian Wilkins.”

Giles swore, drawing Donna’s puzzled gaze.  Grim, the Auror snapped, “Brian’s been dead for two years, Donna.  He was Team One’s first liaison.”  Looking up at the astonished lab tech, Onasi growled.  “How long has the gun been registered?”

The tech scanned his printout again.  “Looks like it was registered in March of this year, Detective Onasi.”

Donna put the pieces together and dropped her voice lower.  “That’s when you got yours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

* * * * *

Wordy gulped as the gryphon that used to be his Sergeant stalked forward, an inhuman gleam in his eyes; a predator on the hunt for fresh meat.  Ed yelled, ramming the bars of his cell, trying to distract the gryphon from his target, but aside from his ears flicking in Ed’s direction, the gryphon merely hissed in annoyance.

“Greg, stop!” Ed roared as loudly as he could.

“Boss, don’t do it!” Spike pleaded from his own cell.  “You’ll never forgive yourself if you do.”

“That’s Wordy, Sarge!” Lou cried, slamming his shoulder into the bars.

“Sarge, you gotta stop!” Jules nearly screamed.  Seeing the hopeless expression on Wordy’s face, she nearly broke down crying.  It was cruel and unfair, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Sam didn’t bother with words; he slammed his full weight into the bars, over and over again, yelling his frustration as he accomplished nothing save bruising his shoulder.

Wordy was rapidly running out of room as he scooted back.  Then his back erupted again and Wordy curled up in fresh agony; even so, he pushed himself backwards again, ignoring the wrenching pain from the dagger wounds.  But even that didn’t buy him much; he was pressed up against his own cell, out of room and out of time.

“Please, Sarge,” he begged as the gryphon padded closer, eager for the kill.  “Don’t do it.”

The gryphon pounced.

 

[4] Celtic goddess of war, revenge, and magic

[5] Latin for ‘A change of mind and body of the beast non-magical’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Sherza and his "Families and Familiars: Second Year" for the Black/Lestrange dagger as well as the modified Petrificus.  
> Also credit to Ophiuchus and her "Harry Potter and the Dimensional Trunk" for the Animagus transformation spell.  
> Both stories can be found on Fanfiction.net if you're interested.


	9. Demon Wolf

Harry Potter swept into Gringotts, his emerald eyes flashing as he clutched Silnok’s summons.  The goblins quickly ushered him to Silnok’s temporary office, wary of provoking the infamous Potter temper.

Inside, Silnok pointed to the chair and hardly waited for Harry to sit.  “Mitchell Bruck,” he announced grimly.  “My people have been observing him closely.”

“What about him?” Harry demanded.

The goblin sneered, then slapped a file down in front of Harry.

The Auror picked it up and flipped through it, only to pause and go back to the beginning.  He swallowed hard.  “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Silnok confirmed gravely.  “Bruck is Moffet’s dog through and through; only Moffet can tell him where to _bite_.  He has, up till now, successfully concealed his loyalties from his superiors, but his attack on Team One is a step too far, one which has drawn _our_ attention to his…peculiar tastes.”

Shuffling through another stack of papers, Silnok added, “He also holds a position in the Muggle world, Auror Potter.”

“What?” Harry blurted in horror.  “His job in the MACUSA’s law enforcement should be fulltime, how is he managing it?”

“That is an excellent question, one I hope you will ask him.”

“Why now?” Harry questioned.  “You could have waited to get this to me.”

“No.”  Silnok looked up, actual fear in his eyes.  “Bruck has departed MACUSA’s capital with orders ostensibly from Madame Locksley in Canada.  Team One is to be handed over to him and transported to Toronto for ‘additional interviews’.”

Harry froze, then rose and raced out of the room without looking back.  Behind him, Silnok nodded sharply in approval, then tapped a stone on his desk.  “See to it that our agent is properly rewarded for his information.”

“Yes, Account Manager Silnok,” the junior goblin on the other end acknowledged.

“And convey to him my assurances that the weapons used at Azkaban will be _properly_ dealt with.”  Leaning back in his chair, Silnok smirked.  For all of Moffet’s intelligence and sheer genius, he had overlooked one little fact in his grand scheme to frame Team One.  Gringotts had been the ones to develop most of the runic technology Team One used and therefore they could locate every device and every weapon used by Team One.  Effortlessly.

As goblins _loathed_ Dark Magic, it had been the work of scarcely an hour to convince the goblin high court to act against Moffet’s dark magic infused firearms.  The British Department of Mysteries had confirmed, to the satisfaction of Ragnok and the goblin high court, that Moffet’s invention was essentially a far more painful version of the Killing Curse.

Thus, it was also to Gringotts’ advantage to prevent the spread of Moffet’s creations.  Already, two of Moffet’s _charming_ little labs had been uncovered and his inventions confiscated; many of those same inventions would be destroyed after they were studied thoroughly enough to counter future uses of such magic.  Some of Moffet’s wizards had escaped goblin justice, but Silnok doubted they could cause much damage once their leader was eliminated.

* * * * *

Somehow, Giles was unsurprised to see his former training Auror and the Head Unspeakable in Shelley Wordsworth’s living room on his return from SRU Headquarters.  He ignored them as he looked to Sophie first.  “Ed’s backup gun is now evidence in a shooting,” he reported grimly.  “Moffet had a mole inside the SRU.”

“What happened?” Sophie demanded.

The Auror grimaced.  “I had to shoot him, let’s leave it at that, Sophie.  On the plus side, he’s also the one who shot _me_ , so that’s one mystery off the table.”  His gaze swung to Simmons.  “Simmons, Holleran has that transcript you were looking for and Team One’s service weapons have been rechecked against the rounds from McKean.”

“And given the mole,” the Head Unspeakable murmured, “You would have to _prove_ that Team One actually _used_ their service weapons.”

Onasi smirked mirthlessly.  “Don’t bother, Simmons.  Two of Team One’s guns were swapped out; the serial numbers on the guns Team One has been using don’t match the weapons assigned to them.  One _was_ registered to the SRU mole.”

“And the other?” Simmons half-barked, leaning into his former rookie’s space.

The smirk vanished.  “Someone registered a gun under Brian Wilkins’ name about the same time as I got mine.”

Roy’s jaw dropped, Simmons hissed in fury, and the Head Unspeakable arched a brow.  “ _Well_ now,” the man murmured.  “That _is_ quite the turn of events, isn’t it?”  Silver eyes sharpened.  “You have more?”

“Yes.”  Giles paced a moment, then looked to the women, Clark, and Lance – who had apparently woken up some time after he and Roy left.  “Commander Holleran is throwing Team Three behind our efforts.  He wants Team One back as soon as possible, so he’s requesting that we move this operation to the barn.”

The women were quiet a moment, glancing at each other, then Sophie sighed and ran a hand through her hair.  “That’s probably for the best,” she observed.  “They can help our guys a lot more than _we_ can, Shelley.”

Shelley swallowed hard, then fixed Giles and Roy with a glare.  “Bring them _home_.”

“We will,” Giles promised firmly as Roy nodded his own agreement.

“A moment,” the Head Unspeakable requested.  “We will need our young Wild Mages along for the ride.”

“They’re _kids_ ,” Sophie argued at once, propping her hands on her hips and giving the Head Unspeakable a dangerous, ‘do not mess with mama bear’ look.

“My response to _that_ is twofold, Mrs. Lane,” The wizard replied.  “First, the sooner young Heir Calvin reaches his uncle’s side, the sooner he can divest himself of the magic currently affecting his health and magical core.  Secondly, should my suspicions prove true, then we will _need_ their magic to stop Moffet.”

Though neither Shelley nor Sophie were pleased, it was plain that the Head Unspeakable would not budge in his position.  In less than ten minutes, they were left alone with only _their_ children to look after as they worried about their extended, adopted family.

* * * * *

“You knew.”

Madame Locksley whirled, shock entering her face at the sight of a furious Harry Potter in her office.  “Knew what?” she questioned.

“Don’t play games with me,” Harry snarled, striding forward to slam his palms against her desk.  “You _knew_ Team One was being _framed_ and you did _nothing!_ ”

The blonde woman froze, then nodded slowly, turning away.

“For Merlin’s sake, _why_?” Harry burst out.  “Why back them to the hilt one day and throw them under the Knight Bus the next?”

Without responding, Madame Locksley sat down at her desk and fingered a picture frame of a bright young witch, smiling and waving.  Tears filled her eyes as she stared at the witch.

She looked up into intense green eyes.  “Tell me why,” the wizard demanded.  “Why did you betray them?”

“How much is a life worth?” the witch choked out, stroking the picture in front of her.  “I told myself they were just Muggles.  That they could get out of Moffet’s trap on their own.”  Her eyes closed.  “Anything to make it better.”  A sniffle.  “I thought, if I pushed them out of our world, it would be enough for him, but it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t?” Harry pounced, then his eyes fell on the picture and he blanched.  “He has your daughter?”

“Yes,” Madame Locksley whispered.  “Merlin forgive me, I couldn’t let him kill her.  I couldn’t…I couldn’t let her suffer because of _me_.”

Emerald eyes closed with equal sorrow, then opened, even more intense than before.  “I’ll get her back,” Harry promised.

“No,” Madame Locksley replied, shaking her head sadly as she pushed a file at him; the tears spilled down her cheeks as she spoke.  “Bring my nephew home, Potter.  Don’t let Moffet kill _him_ , too.  He’s all I have left now.”

Harry opened the folder and his heart sank as he stared at the once vibrant witch, horribly burned and scarred, her clothes – what few clothes she had on – in shreds.  Her eyes were closed and his training told him that she was probably dead.  Looking down at the young witch’s broken, beaten mother, he understood her actions and her motivations; he held out a hand to the grieving woman.  “Come with me,” he urged.  “We’ll save them together.”

Madame Locksley looked up at the British Auror, his hand out and sympathy in his eyes.  Then her jaw firmed and she let him pull her up as she drew her wand.  “Yes.  For my daughter and the cousin she never got to meet.”

* * * * *

Inside SRU Headquarters, Holleran led the wizards and Roy into the briefing room where Team Three was already assembled, their expressions grim.  Team Three’s Sergeant arched a brow at Roy.  “Didn’t know you were magic, Lane.”

“I’m not,” Roy shot back.  “We can trade ‘how I got introduced to magic’ stories later.  Once Team One’s safe and sound.”

The Sergeant grunted, but nodded.  “Copy that.”  He gestured to the table.  “What’ve we got?”

Simmons took the lead, outlining the double attack on the magical prisons, the prisoners who’d escaped, and the investigation that had led to Team One’s arrest.  He spent particular time on how almost every piece of evidence collected had implicated Team One as well the fact that Onasi had been shot with Sam Braddock’s service weapon.  By the time he was done with his summary, Team Three was ashen at how thoroughly their colleagues had been framed.

Taking a deep breath, Simmons launched into the rest, summarizing the efforts by Sergeant Parker’s wards to get both Roy and Onasi back on their feet with the express purpose of getting Team One out of Moffet’s trap.  The evidence Onasi had left behind for him to find and his subsequent realization of just how completely he’d been tricked as he pulled together the same information his rookie had.

“I hear the discovery of the SRU mole was…interesting,” Simmons finished.  “And Onasi’s already brought me up to date on the swapped weapons theory.”

Donna stepped forward, taking the lead for her team.  “The serial number of the gun Cohn used to threaten Winnie matches Sam Braddock’s service weapon.  Forensics is already having a ball with it.  The rounds inside the magazine have all been _altered_ and the gun’s been modified to fire the new rounds.  Some of the modifications are very…exotic…so I’m thinking magic, myself.”

“That would match the report we’ve received from Britain,” the Head Unspeakable murmured.  “I believe it’s safe to assume that Constable Lane’s missing weapon has been altered in a similar fashion.”  Spreading his hands, the Unspeakable continued, “I have also obtained proof that the American Auror in the investigation lied about Constable Wordsworth’s phone.  It _was_ deactivated on the precise date that Constable Wordsworth reported it missing, approximately two _days_ prior to the prison breakouts.”

“Strike another piece of evidence,” Roy muttered.

“The case against Team One is unraveling by the minute,” the white haired man agreed, pushing his hood back.  “But that is of secondary concern at the moment, I’m afraid.”  Turning, he requested, “The photographs and blueprints from the Auror archives, if you please, Auror Lane.”

Roy rolled his eyes, but pulled a familiar packet free from the Admuir file.  He sorted through the packet’s contents, then laid a blueprint out on the briefing table.  “That’s your helicopter, Simmons,” he announced, waving a hand at the sleek craft as Team Three moved in to gape at the drawings.  “And Moffet helped build it.”

“Built it, stole it, and then improved upon the original designs,” the Head Unspeakable murmured, examining the blueprints intently.

“Improved?” Onasi pressed, his brow furrowing in worry.

“Yes, _improved_ , Auror Onasi.  Perhaps even _before_ he stole it.”  The Head Unspeakable frowned deeply.  “We believe that he has found a way to, quite literally, mix magic and technology.”

“Heck, _we_ do that,” Donna pointed out.

“Not like _this_ , Constable Sabine,” the Head Unspeakable countered.  “No, this is very old, very dark magic.  The type of magic that initially turned those without magic against those _with_ magic.  It bears no relation at all to the sort of magic used to craft the devices that you and Team One use regularly.”

“What did he do?” Simmons asked, his expression worried.

“He harnessed an Obscurus and bound it to the helicopter,” was the simple response; the statement drew a sharp gasp from the other two wizards and puzzled looks from the techies.  “Apart, both are weapons of mass destruction.  _Together_ , they may well form an unstoppable superweapon capable of destroying anything in their path.  How he has managed to retain control of it, I do not know, but if he _loses_ control, Merlin help us all.”

The Head Unspeakable looked up at the men and women watching him anxiously.  “We must depart for McKean at once.  Moffet is obsessed with destroying any chance at all for those of magic and those of technology to peacefully coexist and work together.  Team One is a living example of how successful such an endeavour can be, one he cannot tolerate if he hopes to achieve his goals.”

“We worked magic-side, too,” Donna pointed out.

“Not for long,” Simmons rumbled.  “Not long enough to counter the fallout if Moffet succeeds in destroying Team One’s reputation in our world.  And obviously not long enough to draw his attention the way Team One did.”

The Head Unspeakable nodded gravely.  “I have requested the loan of Corporal Hawke from the Squib Squad; he will meet us at the International Portkey Division and he has already been given authorization to execute Moffet if we have the chance.  I now give that same authorization to you and your team, Sergeant.”

Team Three’s Sergeant inclined his head in acknowledgement.  “Everyone has Scorpio; Team One is the priority.”

“Quite,” the white-haired wizard confirmed before looking to the two teenagers in the room.  “We will need _your_ aid as well, Heirs Calvin.”

Donna’s eyes flashed.  “They’re kids.”

“And they are our best chance against a fully powered Obscurus, Constable Sabine.”

“When do we leave?” Team Three’s Sergeant demanded.

The Head Unspeakable regarded them gravely, then he inclined his head.  “Now.”

* * * * *

Madame Locksley hissed as Potter filled her in on Bruck’s background.  Even in the depths of her blackmail induced betrayal of _her_ Aurors, she had never been willing to go as far as this Bruck was.  To forge an authorization from _her_ and use it to get her former subordinates killed…it was beyond the pale.

“Could _he_ have been at Azkaban and McKean?” she questioned.  “It _would_ be the perfect way to know how best to frame Team One.”

The British Auror considered that.  “If he _was_ there, he’s probably carrying a Muggle firearm,” he informed the Division Head.  “From what the Unspeakables told me, if we’re hit by that, it’s good-bye unless Parker’s kids are feeling generous.”

“Why?” Locksley demanded sharply.  “What do _they_ have to do with this?”

Potter sighed, raking a hand through his hair.  “Moffet’s modified the firearm to fire bullets that have more stopping power _and_ are imbued with a curse.  If the bullet doesn’t kill you, the curse _will_ , inside of a week, unless a Wild Mage counteracts it.  When I left, they were looking into other cures, but they think when Moffet developed this curse, he used the Old Religion to do it.”

The gray-blonde woman gasped.  “And Wild Mages are some of the few magicals left who use the Old Religion!”

Potter nodded grimly as Madame Locksley led him towards her destination: an old magical portal with a direct connection to McKean.  It wasn’t used anymore because it required so much power to run, but it was faster and smoother than a Portkey.  At the moment, if they wanted to beat Mitchell Bruck to his targets, the portal was essential.

* * * * *

Lance swallowed as Giles and Roy brought the ‘secret’ Halloween costumes out to the trucks.  They’d need every advantage they could get, hence the reason Giles had insisted that Simmons and the Head Unspeakable go on ahead to arrange the Portkey to McKean while the rest of the group made one brief stop first.

As the two Aurors swung into the truck’s back seat, Donna twisted around, her face set in determination.  “Now where?”

Roy leaned forward.  “Head for the downtown area, Sabine.  I’ll tell you where to park once we get there.”  He looked back at Lance.  “How you holding up, kiddo?”

The teenager gave Roy a grin.  “Never better, Roy.”

Roy rather doubted that, especially since Lance’s usual sapphire was obscured by a burnt amber hue that swirled and churned in his eyes.  But trying to leave the teen behind wouldn’t do any good either; the Head Unspeakable had confirmed that they needed to get Lance to his uncle, the sooner the better.

_I just hope we’re not too late._


	10. Love and Hate

The scream locked in his throat as his back erupted in a new wave of molten fire.  He was on his back, staring up at a wild animal, a _predator_ that loomed, his teeth flashing as he hissed down at the constable in his claws.

_Huh.  He’s got_ fangs _in that beak of his.  Go figure._

In the background, he could hear his team still pleading and the fugitives laughing hysterically at the _irony_ of it all.  A transformed ‘Muggle’, killing his fellow Muggles in a ‘glorious’ display of magic’s superiority.

Frankly, Wordy was shocked the gryphon hadn’t broken his _neck_ when he’d pounced and slammed Wordy to the ground.  Fresh agony licked at him and Wordy attempted to curl up in spite of the talons holding him in place.  More blood spurted as the talons bit into his arms, but he didn’t care.  It hurt too much to care.  He supposed he should beg for his life, but how did you beg for your life from a predator who couldn’t understand English?  Even if he _was_ really human with fluency in at least two languages.

The gryphon’s hazel eyes, so like and yet _unlike_ Sarge’s, studied Wordy with indifference, judging the best way to carve up the helpless human in his claws.  The constable swallowed hard as the talons tightened, drawing more blood from his arms.  The wicked, tearing beak lowered towards his throat.  _At least it’ll be fast…_

“Hey, Sarge,” he croaked.  “Talk about stupid, huh?  I mean, here we are, listing all the times we got away scot-free and then _this_ happens.”  The constable drew in a breath.  “Wanted to say ‘sorry’, Sarge, but I guess it’s too late.”

_Hey, Aslan, if You’re gonna pull off that usual last second save, I could really use it right about now.  Please?  You’re just about outta time here._

Wordy swore he heard a Lion roar in the back of his mind.

* * * * *

Deep within the black and white helicopter, the Obscurus listened to the events below it, humming to itself in satisfaction.  _They_ were paying and _they_ would pay far, far more before the end.  The wizards were annoying, but Master saw them as a means to an end, one that would leave the world bathed in blood and the ones who’d hurt it paying for every scrap of pain and fear before it was over.

Then the cries below changed and the Obscurus increased the gain on the helicopter’s microphone.  Something new was happening, something _interesting_.  The Obscurus snorted to itself as the newly made gryphon advanced on one of its own friends.  Foolish, all of it!  Kill _them_ and be done with it!

The words were so soft that even the Obscurus almost didn’t hear them.  The human was talking to the gryphon about to kill it.  And that was the maddest thing of all.  Why talk when you could save your breath for one last futile gesture of defiance?  The pleas and begging were music to the Obscurus and it growled eagerly, mentally urging the gryphon to savage every last _one_ of its pathetic friends.

_They will pay, they will all pay._

* * * * *

Love.  The most misunderstood word in the history of mankind.  So often, love is applied _solely_ to romance, to lust and temporary satisfaction, quickly gained and just as quickly lost.  But love has _always_ been far, far beyond man’s limited, dim understanding of it.  Without love, nothing at all would exist and nothing would matter.  Love is the foundation of every world, every planet; every plant, root and branch, every animal, great and small, and every _human_ ever created.

Love sang Narnia into existence, Love ordered the planting of a tree that would keep the infant country safe from the White Witch for a thousand years, and Love refused to accept the traitor’s death as inevitable, offering Itself in Edmund Pevensie’s place.  Never tame, never biddable, never expected, but always Good, Love watched over Narnia, guiding it through every victory, every defeat, and even the very end, when the stars rained down and the giant Time put the sun out.

The Deep Magic rippled, the Love at its core refusing to permit Tash his victory over the humans in his grasp.  A Lion roared and a soul, forced down and buried by the gryphon form, resurfaced enough to make his wild side _listen_.

* * * * *

The ripping beak paused less than a centimeter from Wordy’s throat.  Then, it redirected to lightly touch the slash across the constable’s chest.  Wordy couldn’t help his scream as the weeping, poisoned slash was touched, however lightly.  The gryphon reared back, screeching his own displeasure; for a moment, those talons were _gone_ and Wordy gasped in relief as his attempts to curl up finally succeeded.  The gryphon came down all around him and he looked up again into fierce, indifferent hazel eyes.  A hiss and Wordy flinched from the end, curling tighter.  The gryphon’s talons touched his back and he screamed again, his back arching as shock ran through his entire body.

* * * * *

 “Sarge, stop it!” Jules cried as Wordy’s eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out from the pain of his back being touched.  “Please, Sarge,” she begged, burying her face in her hands as she wept.

* * * * *

Prey.  As soon as he was awake, he smelled it.  Heard it gasping nearby, heard the catch of fear as he pushed himself up, neatly folding his wings.  It was the work of a moment to spot it, particularly when it foolishly cried out.  He crouched, advancing on the prey who scooted back from him, fear fairly _rolling_ off it.  Content in the fact that the prey had nowhere to go, he stalked it slowly, letting it quiver and fumble and crawl.  There was a hopeless look in its eyes; it knew as well as he did what the end results would be.  Then it touched a metal cage and cried out, as if the metal cage had hurt it.

He pounced, slamming the prey down, but something wasn’t right.  He should have twisted _just so_ to break the prey’s neck, but he hadn’t.  No matter.  He heard the prey speaking, but he ignored its words as he leaned in, his beak ready to end the hunt.

A Lion’s roar rang in his mind and he froze, just froze.  Then, with a smidge of curiosity nudging at him, he sniffed.

The human smelled familiar, though there was a foul scent coming from its chest and an even fouler one from its back.  Curious, he reached down to touch where the scent was coming from, drawing a scream from the human.  Screeching, he drew back, offended by the loud noise that hurt his sensitive ears.  The human curled up, exposing its back; the scent of poisoned meat filled the air and one talon touched the source, drawing another anguished scream from the human.  Then the human went limp as the humans around him cried out, their voices begging and pleading.

Snorting, he pulled back, regarding the human and the blue sheen of light that surrounded it.  He leaned down, sniffing carefully at the blue light.  Familiar.  Pride.  His ears flicked forward, then back.  _Mine._   Reaching out, he drew his own in close, hissing at the poisoned meat that scored the blue’s back, carving symbols in its skin.  This time, the blue didn’t react as it was moved and he rumbled approval.  Leaning down, he licked at the scoring on his blue’s back, hissing his displeasure at the poison’s sting against his tongue.  Long furry, feathery ears twitched as he worked his way down his blue’s back, one forefoot holding the blue in place as he licked the poison away.  The wounds still bled, but now they bled cleanly with no poison tainting flesh or blood.

Once he was done with the back, he shifted, nuzzling his beak under his blue and carefully flipping it over.  The cut across his blue’s chest drew a disapproving hiss-growl, then his tail lashed as he attended to it.  Finished, he straightened, flaring his wings out as much as he could and screeching challenge at the four humans watching from a safe distance.

**_Mine.  My Flock, my Pride.  Stay away._ **

Glancing down at his blue, he curled around it, nudging at it until its head and back were supported by his body.  Then he sighed to himself and shifted to gaze at the four humans who were Not-Pride, his eyes alert and watchful.

* * * * *

The Obscurus reeled in shock at the gryphon’s declaration to the wizards.  What was this?  How?  How did the gryphon know the humans belonged to it?  Why did it even matter?  The humans would kill the gryphon to protect their sniveling comrade, the Obscurus was sure of it.  Why, then, was the gryphon protecting those who would kill it?  Why was it ignoring fresh meat?

A smidge of doubt entered the Obscurus.  Perhaps…perhaps it did not need to get revenge on _them_.  Was it enough to simply turn away from what _they_ wanted?

Fascinated by the conflict below, the Obscurus refused to listen when Master tried to move its controls.  _No,_ it growled, _I want to stay._

“My dear, we must away,” Master murmured.  “We must retrieve our allies before the charming Aurors arrive to stop us.”

_I want to stay.  I want to see what happens next,_ the Obscurus rumbled; the helicopter controls held the hover, adjusting enough to keep the chopper in the sky, but refusing to let the craft move.

* * * * *

Ed’s eyes almost bugged out as Greg _licked_ Wordy’s back.  Gryphon or not, that was his _boss_ out there, not some wild animal.  And not just _once_ either, oh, no, Greg was working his way down Wordy’s back, hissing lightly and twitching his ears as he bathed Wordy in gryphon spit.

“What the heck is he doing?” the team leader muttered.

“I don’t know,” Sam muttered back.  “Glad Wordy’s out, though.”

Ed shivered violently, remembering his best friend’s screams.  “Me, too,” he managed.

From the next cell over, he heard Spike make an exclamation of surprise and edged to the far side to demand, “What is it, Spike?”

It was Lou who replied, “Boss is, um… _licking_ …”  Lou made a face, then finished, “…where that _#$!%*@%_ cut into Wordy’s back.”

Ed whistled low.  “And?”

“I don’t know,” Lou admitted.  “Can’t see all that well from here, but…it looks like Wordy’s bleeding more _cleanly_ or something.  Like Sarge is cleaning out the poison from the cuts.”

Spike’s vigorous agreement rang in his voice.  “I think Sarge is still in there,” the bomb tech hissed.  “He’s _helping_ Wordy, Ed, not hurting him.”

Done with Wordy’s back, Greg moved to the side and flipped the constable over, exposing the cut on his chest.  As Ed watched, still incredulous, his boss licked the slash, his feathered tail flicking back and forth.  Finished, the gryphon glanced up at the four fugitives and spread his wings out as far as they would go, screeching challenge.  Ed buried a wince.  The unfurled wings made for an impressive and intimidating picture, but the outer third of so of both wings was deformed, bent down at an angle that prevented flight; the team leader would bet his annual salary on that.

“Bet that was the Boss tellin’ ‘em to back off,” Sam joked.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Ed murmured back, his eyes fixed on his two best friends.

Greg curled up on the ground, nudging Wordy’s limp body up until he was propped on the gryphon’s back, his head lying on the sleek fur of the animal’s hide.  Finished, the gryphon lowered his beak to the ground, flicking his tail every so often as he watched the fugitives on the opposite side of the cell block.

* * * * *

_No,_ Loki thought furiously.  Parker was supposed to _savage_ his friends, not lick them!  He stepped forward, brandishing his wand at the gryphon, who hiss-growled warning.  “Not _this_ time,” Loki sneered, raising the wand to cast a _Crucio_.  “You don’t get to win _this_ time, little Muggle!”

Then tawny muscles bunched and the gryphon launched with a screech-roar of fury, straight at _him_.  Loki angled his wand and screamed, “ _Bombarda!_ ”

* * * * *

“Get down!” Sam yelled, diving for the scant cover of the cell’s opposite corner, followed by Ed.  “Guys, get down!”

Jules hurled herself backwards and the two techs of the team took cover in their own cell as the spell struck the stone above the two center cells.

* * * * *

Talons flashed, his blood singing in delight at bringing down one of his Pride’s enemies.  The other three screamed and ran as he shifted towards them, blood dripping from his beak and talons.  He glanced behind him, alarm flashing through him at the jumble of stone and metal.  A worried **sqaaa!** erupted as he whirled and stalked back to his Pride.  The injured blue was lying where he’d left it, largely unharmed by his sudden departure and the falling stone.  Good.

He stalked into the middle cell, a low keen-whine in his chest as he spotted two humans, still and covered with white.  Urgently, he moved to them and rubbed his beak against the closest one, a human with a mop of yellow hair and a silver sheen.  It groaned and shifted, drawing a happy thrum-purr from him.  He turned his attention to his third human, nudging the tall, bald one with his beak and imperiously **scree** -ing at it.  This was no time to sleep!  The prey was getting away.

“Ed,” the silver cried, grabbing at the bald human with yellow swirling around him.  “Come on, Ed, wake up.”

“Sam, shut it,” the yellow retorted, clutching its head.  “I’m up, go check on Spike and Lou.”  The yellow’s eyes shifted up to him.  “Greg.”

He bobbed his head, feeling that he should, then followed the silver out and to the next cell where bronze and emerald were groaning and waking up already.  In the farthest metal cage, pink was uncurling, frightened, but unharmed.  He hissed, his fur puffing up at the cage.  The pink retreated, fresh fear spotting its scent, and he stopped, cocking his head at it with a puzzled **sque-err?**   It stared at him, shivering with a mix of fear and hope.  He butted his head against the metal cage, then backed up and reared, wrapping his talons around the metal.  His shoulders flexed and he twisted sharply with a triumphant screech, ripping the metal cage apart and freeing his pink.

Uncurling his talons from the metal, he hissed at it again, then turned to regard his Pride.  Blue was still not moving, but bronze and yellow were huddled over it, tending to it.  He regarded the rest of his flock, pink and silver standing side-by-side with emerald staring at him in fascination.  He grumbled at pink and silver, stalking over to nudge them apart.  He added a disapproving hiss-growl in silver’s direction, then whirled and started to pad towards the door.

“Greg,” yellow called, drawing him back around.  “Wordy’s hurt.”

His tail lashed as he padded to yellow, bronze, and blue.  Blue was curled up on the ground and shivering violently.  He rumbled, crouching and sniffing at his blue.  There was still a foreign scent around it, coming from the bleeding wounds.  He sat back on his haunches, keen-whining in confusion.  He’d bathed the wounds, why was it still hurt?

* * * * *

The humans weren’t attacking the gryphon!  It had _killed_ one of the wizards, but the humans were tamely accepting a _wild animal_ and treating it like an ally…no, like their _friend!_   How could this be happening?  Humans _didn’t_ accept those who were different, it knew this very well, to its detriment.  How many times had humans tried to kill it, simply because it was magic and more powerful than they?

The Obscurus whined as it bobbed in midair.  It made no sense, how the humans were acting.  Perhaps _they_ understood that the gryphon was too powerful and _they_ were waiting until _they_ could strike back?

Or did _they_ truly care for the gryphon, no matter its shape?

“Respond, I _command you_ ,” the Master raged.  “We cannot stay here, we must leave.  It is not time yet.”

The Master protected it, the Master would give it its revenge…with a sad whine, the Obscurus let the Master move the controls and flew away to pick up the three remaining wizards.


	11. Pride of Narnia

Team Three hustled into the International Departures area, ignoring the askance looks they were getting from the wizards around them.  Donna signaled two of her teammates to join her and the two brunet Aurors in encircling the two teenagers; Roy and Giles had told her a rather disconcerting story during the drive over and she had no intention of telling Parker she’d gotten his kids into trouble while trying to save his team.  The man was protective to a fault.

Ahead of them, Auror Simmons and the Head Unspeakable guy who had yet to drop his name were waiting, a long rope Portkey in hand.  Simmons eyed them.  “I don’t suppose any of you have ever taken a Portkey before?”

Team Three – and Roy – mutely shook their heads.  Simmons grimaced.  “Wonderful.”  Sighing, the Auror set Team Three and Roy up in a circle, with Parker’s kids on opposite sides of the circle.  He put the Head Unspeakable next to Lance, tossing the teenager a glare when Lance opened his mouth to argue, then pointed Giles to the midpoint between Donna and Roy, then took the final side himself as he passed the Portkey around.

“Everyone grab hold,” he ordered.  “We don’t need to lose any one mid jump.  Try not to fall when we land.”  Ignoring the worried looks on the techies’ faces, the Auror looked to the wizard manning the departure.  “Go.”

An instant later, the Portkey whirled them away.

* * * * *

Jules stared at Sarge, marveling in the smooth ripple of muscles under fur, the nearly seamless merge between lion and eagle.  Even the wings!  Her Sarge had _wings!_   They were crippled and helpless, which made her bite her lip in regret, but they were still magnificent.  The brunette constable glanced over at Loki and shivered.  She couldn’t forget that the gryphon didn’t have Sarge’s mind guiding it, though; Sarge _hated_ going lethal, but the gryphon hadn’t hesitated an instant before leaping for the wizard’s throat.

But he was _acting_ a lot like Sarge now, as he hovered over Wordy, whimpering and whining as he paced around the still unconscious man, tail lashing anxiously.  Abruptly, he paused, swinging towards Sam and those fixed hazel eyes seemed to narrow thoughtfully.

* * * * *

In a tiny room with hardly enough room to move, a young witch clutched at the thin robe that chafed her horribly burned skin, gasping and wishing for more water; she’d long since finished the tepid cupful her captors had grudgingly given her.  Shouts drew her head up and suddenly, her door burst open, drawing a scream as light struck hypersensitive eyes that were still recovering from hours upon hours of being staked out in a desert.

The witch closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands to block out the light.  She felt hands on her and shivered, because they weren’t human.  Then a harsh goblin voice rose over the tumult and she heard him come to a stop next to her.  “Daughter of Eve,” he rumbled.  “I will cover your eyes with a blindfold.”

The witch nodded, trembling.  “Please,” she whispered.  “I want to go home.”

The blindfold slipped around her eyes and the goblin tied it in the back before guiding her off the bed.  “And so you shall,” he promised fiercely.  “This I vow, in the Lion’s name.”  Gently, he ushered her out of her former prison.  “But first, Daughter of Eve, we must get you to the Healers and have you tell us your story.”

She felt tears leak out from under the blindfold and was shocked when the goblin soothed her cries.  “Peace, Daughter of Eve,” he murmured in her ear.  “If you will have patience a little while longer, I shall see you home myself.”

A smile touched her face and he chuckled.  “Ah, there we are,” he praised, patting her hand as he led her down the hall.  “Tell me, Daughter of Eve, are you related to a Samuel Braddock?  You have a similar cast to your features.”

“I do?”

“Indeed, yes.”  A breath as she was guided around an obstacle.  “And you have the same sort of courage he does, Daughter of Eve.”

When they stopped, she heard her rescuer turn to another goblin.  “Well?”

“All is well here, but we have lost contact with McKean.”

An angry growl.  “Then reestablish contact!  And send for the Healers!”

* * * * *

The blue’s magic was weak and crippled, like his wings.  That was why some of the poison was still there, still working.  And _his_ magic was absent, with a throbbing hole in his chest where it _should_ have been.  His nature couldn’t change, so he had still been able to neutralize the poison in his blue’s wounds, but he and the blue didn’t have enough magic to stop the last of the poison.

Silver had magic.  Not much, but enough.  He could _use_ that magic to fix blue’s magic.  Blue’s magic would never be strong, not even equal to silver’s, but it would be better.  He rumbled in pleasure at his solution and padded to silver, nudging it to blue’s side insistently.

“Easy, Boss, I’m going,” silver protested as he nudged it harder.  Silver stopped by blue and looked at him in confusion.  “Now what, Boss?”

One forefoot came up and rested on silver’s shoulders, pushing it down next to blue.  But silver didn’t reach out and touch blue; it looked up at him, confusion still in its eyes.  He hissed in frustration, then removed his forefoot from silver’s back and rested it lightly on blue.  He removed the forefoot and looked to silver expectantly.

“You want me to touch him?” silver asked and he bobbed his head; it felt right to do that.  Silver shrugged and reached out.  “Okay, Boss, here goes nothing.”

* * * * *

Sam rested both hands on Wordy, one on his chest, one on his arm, trying not to feel too awkward.  Then Sarge’s forefoot came down, right on top of the hand he had on his teammate’s chest, and one talon nicked both Sam’s hand and Wordy’s chest.  Sam _felt_ the blood mix together and he gasped, feeling an odd pull in his chest.

Wordy’s eyes opened, ever so slightly, and Sam’s jaw dropped as he saw them turn blue, then silvery blue.  The pulling sensation increased and sweat broke out on Sam’s forehead.  He tried to pull back, but Sarge’s talons tightened, keeping his hand in place.  “Sarge, stop,” he pleaded.  “I’m Squib-born, I don’t have much magic.”

The talons never loosened and Sam gasped for air as his meager supply of magic was drained nearly dry; sweat poured down his face, dripping into his eyes and stinging.  Then, suddenly, he was free and yanking his hands back; the sniper’s head spun and Lou caught him before he could fall.  Sam panted, feeling a twinge of resentment that Wordy meant more to Sarge than _he_ did.

“Samtastic!” Spike burst out.

_What?_

Sam was too wrung out to move, so Lou turned him towards Wordy.  The sniper gawped as he stared, watching a mix of blue and silver magic heal the cut across Wordy’s chest.  Ed carefully lifted Wordy up and turned him so they could see his back.

The sniper swallowed hard, choking back bile.  The Lestranges had written SQUIB on Wordy’s back – in letters tall enough to scar his whole back…for life.  The silvery blue magic, however, was tracing the letters and they were rapidly fading to thin white lines, rather than the ugly scars the Lestranges had undoubtedly intended.

“I did that?” he questioned, wonder in his voice.

“I think all _three_ of you did that, Sam,” Jules offered, stealing a glance at the gryphon standing over them.

“Cool.”  Magic, he’d _done magic_.  Even if he never did another thing with his magic ever again, he’d done this much with it.  He’d helped heal his teammate, even if his head _was_ spinning right now.

Wordy groaned, finally starting to wake up.  Sam grinned sloppily at the brunet as he stirred and opened his eyes.  “Welcome back to the madhouse,” the sniper quipped right before he let himself pass out.

* * * * *

Moffet cursed under his breath as he maneuvered his creation sideways, the Obscurus whining and the chopper controls responding much more slowly than they should.  He tapped the side of his helmet, activating the communication device within it.  “What is going on down there?” he demanded sharply.

Bruck’s voice came back, calm and unhurried.  “Loki used the spell you gave him on Parker.”

“Excellent.”

A snort.  “Parker ripped his throat out, sir.”

The dark wizard cursed.  “How?” he demanded.  “Parker doesn’t have enough magic to control his Animagus form.”

“Well, Parker’s Animagus form is currently protecting his entire team from all comers,” Bruck drawled.  “I’d say you underestimated the cop.”  _Again._

“Let us find out if Parker can stand up to a bullet,” Moffet growled.

For the first time in their long association, Bruck hesitated.  “Sir?”

“You may entrust Anderson with the task if _you_ do not feel able,” Moffet purred, insinuation in his voice and tone.  In the background, the Obscurus rumbled with renewed interest.

“Very well, sir.”

* * * * *

The Portkey whirled them into the heart of the prison and it was just as well that Team Three had four wizards to latch onto as they nearly fell all over each other.  Alanna used a touch of her magic to anchor herself, finally understanding why the Head Unspeakable had been placed next to Lance instead of her; her brother couldn’t use his magic.

As soon as the techies were steady on their feet again, Simmons stepped away from the two Team Three members who’d latched onto him, turning his attention to the guards who approached.  “Who’s in charge of the trial cell block?” he demanded sharply.  “I need to speak to him right away!”

Lance frowned, tilting his head to the side as one of the guards who approached jabbered something in Spanish at them.

Simmons shook his head and replied in the same language, his voice angry and grating.  The two quickly got into an argument as Lance walked to one side of the office, tilting his head and listening.  Abruptly, the teen whirled, yelling, “Quiet!”

The room stilled and Lance turned back, closing his eyes and frowning as he focused on what he could hear.  Then he sucked in a breath and his eyes popped open.  “It’s here!”

“What’s here?” Simmons asked in confusion, but Giles, Roy, and Hawke had already caught on.

The three men bolted for the door, followed by most of Team Three, as Giles yelled over his shoulder, “The helicopter, Simmons!  It’s back!”

Simmons swore fluently as he whipped back to the guard and snarled something.  The guard blanched and raced out, spreading the alarm.

“Alanna,” Lance hissed, drawing his sister’s attention.  “You’ve got to get Team One’s armor to them.  Hurry.”

“What about you?”

Her brother turned to the office window and started working it open.  “We need a backup plan, sis.”  He looked over his shoulder.  “Trust me.”

“Always,” Alanna whispered as she hurried over to Donna Sabine, who’d been left behind, to talk her into heading straight for Team One.  After all, with her Wild Magic, she could always find her family, no matter how well they were hidden.

* * * * *

Harry and Madame Locksley exited the portal on the McKean side in time to see two Aurors, one Squib Squad member, and nearly the whole of Team Three barrel past on their way to the stairwell that led up to McKean’s landing pad.

The two wizards turned in the other direction to see Simmons loudly ordering an American Auror to release Team One _at once_ , on his orders.  The American was shaking his head stubbornly as Madame Locksley and Harry swept over.  “Senior Auror Bruck has already gone to secure the prisoners, as per _your_ Division Head’s orders, Senior Auror Simmons,” the American gritted out.

“Orders that _I_ never gave,” Madame Locksley snapped, drawing the attention of both men.  “Where is Bruck?”

The American gestured behind him, to a set of stairs that Harry suspected led up to the isolated cell block used for wizards on trial.  “I can show you the parchment with your signature, Madame,” the American offered.

Locksley’s eyes spat fire.  “Or you can give my Auror the keys to that cell block,” she retorted.  “Release Team One, on _my_ orders.”

“And mine,” Harry growled angrily, before arching a brow at Simmons.  “Why the rush?”

Simmons grimaced.  “The chopper’s here.”

“Where?”

Simmons pointed past them.  “Follow the yelling, Potter.  Giles knows this place as well as _I_ do…I showed him a shortcut to the landing pad on the layout for this place.  Merlin willing, we might just cut this off at the pass.”

Harry glanced at Locksley; she nodded and waved him away.  “Go, Potter.”

The veteran Auror whirled and raced after the Canadians.  From up above, he heard a gunshot and ran faster.

* * * * *

The gryphon rumbled approval as blue’s eyes opened.  Silver slumped in bronze’s grip, but it would be just fine.  He’d known he’d need most of silver’s magic to heal blue, but he hadn’t taken _all_ of silver’s power.  Glancing around, he made his decision and gently nudged yellow until it was between blue, bronze, and silver, and the door.  Leaving yellow where it was, he paced back behind pink and emerald, herding them to yellow’s side.

Satisfied with their positions, he stepped back and turned to the door.  He would hunt his Pride’s enemies down by himself, leaving his humans behind to guard each other.  Hiss-growling in anticipation, tail lashing, he stalked towards the door.

“Greg,” yellow called, drawing him around.  “You need backup.”  Determination coated the yellow as it stepped forward.

He immediately stalked back, pushing yellow back into line roughly with his head, nipping at it in refusal.  His Pride did not have talon, fang, and beak as _he_ did; if they came, they would be hurt like blue had been.

“Sarge, we’re a _team_ ,” pink protested.  “You can’t just go off by yourself.”

His fur puffed up and he hiss-snarled at her, wings flaring just a bit as he crouched in both demonstration and warning.

Emerald slid between him and pink, fear and determination mixing in its scent, swirling in its color.  “Easy, Boss,” it murmured.  “Jules just doesn’t want you getting hurt.”

His ears laid back and he snorted at both of them, before whirling towards the door again.  An odd sound reached him and he hiss-growled, shifting so that his stance was wide; his wings snapped outwards, stretching as far as they could, and he crouched, ready to pounce.

Laughter reached him from the doorway where one of the Not-Pride humans was standing, its scent rich with fear and loathing.  “Figures,” the human spat.  “You’re not even _human_ anymore and you’re _still_ protecting them.  You would’ve made _quite_ the wizard, Parker.”

He snarl-screeched, baring the fangs hidden inside his beak.

The human raised an odd weapon; it smelled of metal and sour magic.  “Say ‘good-bye’, Parker,” it sneered.

He launched with a screech-roar, talons and claws unsheathing as he leapt.  The weapon boomed as he flew.


	12. La Loba Aérea

Alanna led the charge, gasping internally at the gunshot from up ahead of them.  A scream filled the air, a _human_ scream.  As they rounded the corner, a man was standing just outside the cell block where her family was, shaking his head.  “Pity,” he murmured, turning to go.

“Freeze!” Donna yelled, drawing her gun in a blur as she ran.  “SRU!  Hands in the air!”

The wizard whipped around, wand out and aiming before Donna could bring her weapon on target.  Lean and hatchet faced, his cool blue eyes regarded Donna and Alanna, the latter carrying Team One’s armor and two other bags.  His brown hair was slightly wavy and his attire was impeccable and professionally tailored.

“Team Three,” he identified, before sighing.  “I did warn Moffet that his penchant for hands-on revenge would be his downfall.”  The wand adjusted.  “Constable Sabine,” he purred.  “If you put your weapon down, I shall leave you and the charming young Wild Mage alive.”  A shrug.  “Or you can bet your life that you can shoot me with your Muggle weapon before I curse you.”  The wand tip began to glow.

“ _Stupefy_.  _Incarcerous_ **(6)**.”  Bruck’s eyes widened comically before the two spells struck him in the back, one right after the other, dropping him and wrapping him from head to toe in thin, but strong cords.  Donna whipped her weapon down as a blonde woman, with gray mixed into her hair, stopped over the American Auror.  “ _That_ ,” the woman spat, “was for my _daughter_ , you monster!”  Looking up at them, Madame Locksley sighed and gestured to the cell block.  “Go, both of you.”  She nudged the unconscious rogue Auror at her feet.  “I’ll watch this one.”

* * * * *

The human’s eyes stared up at the ceiling, blank and glassy, as he hissed and sent the human’s metal thing sliding across the ground.  Awkward, he twisted around to inspect his right wing, whimper-whining at the pain from the hole the metal thing had caused.  It took a bit of creative twisting to get his head close, then he licked at the wound, suppressing keens as the injury throbbed violently.

Outside the door, he heard human voices and backed away in alarm, hiss-growling and puffing his fur and feathers out as much as they would go.  When two humans burst through the door, he screech-roared, spreading his wings again and crouching.  He would not let them hurt his Pride.  One of them raised another metal thing and his muscles tensed, ready to pounce, but the other human pushed the first one back, scrambling in front of it and spreading both arms out.

“No, Uncle Greg!  It’s Donna!”

“That _thing_ is Parker?!?”

He heard a scuffling sound and turned his head, hiss-growling alarm to see that yellow had broken the line again, moving sideways to see the new humans.  If he moved to protect yellow, the rest of his Pride would be exposed to the humans.  Frustrated, he screech-snarled, beating his wings reflexively.

“Greg, it’s okay!” yellow called.  “They’re friends!”

He snarl-hissed denial.

The smaller human studied him a moment, then stepped forward and _blurred_.  He **scree** -ed in shock and leapt backwards as a violet fire bird fluttered, chirping at him.

“Whoa!” the taller human breathed.

“Donna,” yellow called, “Step forward and hold out your arm.”

The human shrugged and obeyed; the fire bird settled into place on the human’s arm, **churr** -ing at him in greeting.

Wary, he arched his neck, examining the fire bird.  **_My Flock, my Pride,_** he growled, **_Stay away._**

**_We’re here to help,_** the fire bird replied.  Then it tilted its head, examining him.  **_And I’m part of your Flock, silly.  Can’t you smell it?_**

Part of his Flock?  Skeptical, he padded closer to the fire bird and the human, sniffing at both of them.  The human was afraid and Not-Pride, but not prey either.  He reared back, lifting his forefeet off the ground for a moment.  Pride-Friend, he decided, inspecting it from head to toe.  That felt right.

His eyes shifted to the fire bird, its violet swirling and vivid to his vision.   ** _Hatchling._**

The fire bird’s head bobbed.  **_We came to bring you home._**

He snorted, hiss-growling.  **_Not without my own._**

**_Of course not,_** the hatchling cried, sounding offended by the very _idea_.

“Um, I hate to break up the happy family reunion, but my team says the subjects are getting away,” the Pride-Friend announced.  “And that chopper’s flying around the building to pick them up.”

He hissed at that, his ears laying back in indignation.  The prey!  It was getting away.  Without an ounce of hesitation, he pushed past the human and the fire bird, bounding over the two humans just outside and racing after the prey, following its scent.

* * * * *

Alanna fluttered forward, _blurring_ back to human as fast as she could.  “He’s gone after them,” she announced, using her magic to summon her family’s armor.  She grimaced at the sight of Uncle Sam and Uncle Wordy, but focused on Uncle Ed.  “You guys can go Narnian or you can use the Halloween costumes,” she continued.

“Or you could just take the weapons,” Donna offered.  “We brought some along.”

“Weapons,” Uncle Ed growled and Alanna mutely pointed to the last bag she’d been carrying.  “Spike, Jules, gear up!  Lou, stay with Sam and Wordy.”

“Copy,” the rest of Team One acknowledged, the bomb tech and backup sniper hurrying to the weapons bag to pull out weapons.  The prison robes would be a pain, but they could deal.

Uncle Ed’s attention switched to Alanna.  “Can you change him back?”

“Did he get shot?” Alanna questioned.  At the grimace, she shook her head.  “If a wizard takes an injury in their Animagus form, they sometimes have to stay in them until the injury heals.  Especially if the injury is to a wing or something like that.  Is it?”

“Think so,” Lou called.  “Once Anderson was down, he was checking his right wing out and I’m pretty sure I saw blood dripping down his feathers.”

The young Wild Mage clenched her fists.  “Okay, then, I can’t change him back,” she admitted, “But I can track him, so we don’t have to guess on which way he went.”

“Copy that,” Uncle Ed acknowledged, slinging the sniper rifle Jules offered him into place on his back.  “Okay, let’s go!”

* * * * *

Hawke grunted as he spied the two Lestrange brothers, racing side-by-side for a black and white helicopter banking around the side of McKean.  Beside him, Onasi hurled a wide angle Cutting Curse at the pair, attempting to stall the escape more than anything else.  The delay tactic worked; the Lestranges leapt back from the spell’s impact, whirling to see the charging group of cops, Aurors, and one soldier.  Hawke ignored the battle that sprang up in favor of watching the helicopter, his eyes narrowing.

The aircraft’s weapons deployed with a dangerous hum and Hawke yelled, “Get down!  It’s going to fire!”

Team Three hauled the two detectives to the side and down behind cover as Hawke dove for the opposite side, just before the ‘copter opened fire on them.  After a few seconds, the cannon fire stopped.  From his position, Hawke was the first to hear Potter coming up behind them and he yanked the Brit down and out of range as the chopper opened up again.

The SRU cops crawled to angles where they could open fire themselves, pinning the two Azkaban fugitives down as the helicopter scooted sideways, doing its best to return the favor.  Hawke grimaced.  For now, they had a stalemate, but the chopper had the advantage of being far more agile than its ground-based opponents.  Sooner or later, it would have a shot, one they wouldn’t be able to find cover from.

* * * * *

Spike panted as he raced to keep up with his teammates.  Sure, he was the team’s best runner, but he wasn’t exactly at the top of his game after the past two nights and the explosion earlier.  Even so, the bomb tech refused to let himself stop now.  He needed to back up his teammates and Sarge!  The group hit the stairwell, scrambling upwards towards the sound of gunfire.  Mostly gunfire, not spellfire.

“Hope they leave some for us,” the bomb tech quipped.

Donna was frowning.  “The chopper’s armed,” she reported.  “They’re pinned down and taking heavy fire.”

“Anyone down?” Jules demanded.

“Not yet,” Donna replied.  “But my Sarge says it’s only a matter of time.  They think they’ve got the Lestranges pinned, though.”

“Anderson and Loki are down already,” Ed growled.

“Copy,” Donna acknowledged, passing that on as the group raced upwards.

* * * * *

He slammed through the final door, ignoring the steep drop on either side of him as he ran up the outdoors steps towards the prey.  He could smell their fear and hear loud booms from above and ahead of him.  His head craned back to see a flying metal bird, whirring and booming in equal measure; a snarl erupted at the sight of inky black power skating over its surface.

Ahead of him, the final two prey turned, seeing him.  They raised wooden sticks, screaming words he didn’t bother to listen to.  Instead, he screech-roared and launched himself, talons extended.

* * * * *

“Dang,” Roy breathed, eyes as wide as saucers as he stared at the gryphon who’d just taken down the Lestrange brothers with _extreme_ prejudice.  “What is _that_?”

Team Three’s Sergeant grunted.  “Donna says it’s Parker.”

“ _What?_ ” Giles blurted in horror.  “How in the name of Merlin did they manage _that_ one?”  He shivered as his companions tossed him odd looks.

“What’s the problem?” Roy questioned.

A half hysterical laugh.  “ ‘What’s the problem?’  The _problem_ is that’s _not_ Parker, it’s a gryphon that _used_ to be Parker.”

From the opposite side, Harry swallowed hard and called, “An Animagus only remembers their human side because of their magic.  Take away the magic and the animal takes over.”  His eyes narrowed.  “That means, don’t get close unless you want to end up as his next meal.”

Roy gulped, staring at the gryphon which was now hissing and spitting up at the helicopter.  _Ed, if you’re dead, I’m gonna_ kill _you._

Then he spotted his brother racing onto the rooftop, straight towards the _gryphon_.  “There they are!” he yelled, pointing.

Above them, the helicopter turned and the group blanched as they realized the new arrivals were _right out in the open_.

* * * * *

Moffet swore to himself as the Lestranges fell under the gryphon’s talons.  Truly a pity that such promising wizards had failed to deal with _one_ pathetic little Squib-born.  Ah well, c’est la vie.  As he started to maneuver his pet away, he noticed that behind Parker, several other members of that pesky group of Muggle policemen were racing onto the roof area, _along_ with the young female Wild Mage.

“Perhaps, my dear, we can salvage _something_ from this operation.”  Smiling coldly, Moffet swiveled the helicopter’s nose towards the group.

Hands smacked against the aircraft’s nose as it turned.  A teenager smirked at Moffet through the windscreen: the male Wild Mage.  He was wearing an outrageous Muggle outfit of blue and gold, and flying without a broom!  Sapphire eyes hidden by yellow goggles lowered to the chopper.

Over the sound of the whirling blades, the boy yelled, “I know it hurts, but you don’t have to be like this anymore!  Let us help you!”

“No!  Dispose of him!”

The Obscurus howled fury, hurling the teenager back with a surge of dark power.

* * * * *

Lance fell backwards, gasping as the dark magic pounded at him, but he dared not retaliate, not with his uncle’s magic running through his veins.  Then he hit a furry, feathery surface and felt the magic explode.

His vision turned gold and scarlet as his uncle’s magic was drawn out of him, back to its source with a howl of triumph.  The form below him screeched and tried to get away, but the magic was holding them together like a magnet.  Above them, the helicopter’s turn was almost complete.  The scarlet magic wasn’t done, but there was no _time_.

He raised both hands, praying.  “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A golden gryphon leapt skyward, screaming defiance.

* * * * *

Panels sparked and died as the gryphon Patronus raced through the helicopter, destroying the chopper’s weapons controls and frying fully half of the helicopter’s electronics.  Moffet cried out, reflexively lifting an arm to shield his face as his creation wailed dismay and fell a full meter before it recovered.

Grimly, Moffet reached down and drew his weapon.  “If I cannot use your weapons, my dear, I’ll find _another_ way.  They are _mine!_ ”

He lowered the controls, bringing the helicopter alongside the ramp leading from McKean’s cell blocks to the landing pad.  The door _hissed_ as he pushed it open and awkwardly aimed with his left hand.

* * * * *

Ed refused to let himself stop as magic exploded around his boss and his boss’s nephew.  Didn’t even blink as a golden gryphon leapt skyward and ran through the subject ‘copter.  Skidding into position, the sniper swung the rifle off his back and aimed it at the black and white helicopter moving forward and swinging its nose around.  If he was right…Moffet would have to open the door…

As if by magic, the door opened and Ed lowered his head, bracing the sniper rifle and aiming.

* * * * *

Hawke primed himself to run as the helicopter turned.  _End of the line, Moffet.  For Gabrielle._   Then the door opened; he ran for the chopper, as fast as his feet would carry him.  A shot rang out and he saw Moffet’s body tumble out the open door; the helicopter hesitated, then started to drift sideways, away from the ramp.  _Oh, no, you don’t!_

The Squib-born pushed off the edge of the stairs as he leapt, body arching as he flew towards the helicopter’s open door.  Then he landed on the pilot’s seat, stomach first, with a _whoof_ and pulled his legs in as he squirmed inside the chopper.  The Obscurus squealed in fury, trying to buck him out, but Hawke grimly hung on as he slid into the copilot’s seat and strapped himself in, one-handed.

“Easy, Lady!  Easy!  Long time, no see, but I gotcha.  I gotcha.  You’re goin’ home, I promise.”

His hands rested on the controls and he gently coaxed them towards sending the helicopter fluttering towards the landing pad.  It took several minutes, but the Obscurus submitted to his commands, letting him bring the helicopter down for a landing at long last.  As Airwolf touched the ground, Hawke sighed in relief and let himself slump forward.

Moffet was dead and it was finally over.

“I’ll have to introduce you to the eagle, Lady.  Gabrielle liked her.  I’m sure you’ll like her, too.”

The Obscurus made a curious noise.

“Yeah,” Hawke replied, smiling, “I think the eagle will like you, too, Lady.”

 

[6] Latin for ‘to imprison’


	13. Epilogue

Ed sighed as he approached the gryphon lying curled up in the farthest, darkest, dustiest corner he could find.  The animal’s head didn’t budge as he approached and his ears didn’t twitch.  The team leader sighed again as he sank down to sit against the wall, leaving plenty of room for the large animal watching him.  “How you holding up, Greg?”

The gryphon’s head shifted away from him.

Ed nodded as if his boss had spoken.  “It’s a mess, no two ways about that,” he admitted.  “Locksley says it’s going to take another couple of days before they can get someone who can heal your wing to Toronto.”

There was an aborted noise from the gryphon.

“Yeah, Toronto,” Ed confirmed.  “What, you thought we were gonna leave you here, Greg?”

The gryphon moved, not quite rising as he turned on his spot so Ed was facing his flank instead of his head.

The team leader shook his head.  “Greg, we’re _not_ mad at you.  Wordy and Sam are _fine_ and the Healer says Word’s scars won’t even be very noticeable.”

A lion’s tail, topped by eagle tail feathers, flicked in Ed’s face; Ed batted it away without even blinking.

“Spike and Lou are debating nicknames for your gryphon form, you know,” the team leader added, grinning at the astounded squawk and instant whirl; team leader and gryphon stared at each other, the former chuckling and the latter standing with the gryphon equivalent of a dropped jaw.

After a minute, Ed pushed himself back up, stepped forward, and clapped the gryphon on the shoulder.  “Is this about going lethal, Greg?  ‘Cause if you hadn’t, we’d all be dead now, you _know_ that, right?”

The gryphon’s head lowered and he started to turn away again.

Daringly, Ed stepped sideways, blocking the gryphon’s retreat with one hand.  “Or is this about that first minute when you didn’t know who Wordy was?”

He got his answer in spades as Greg slammed his shoulder into Ed’s chest, knocking him away as he fled to another corner of the room, curling up with his head pointed into the corner and his wings acting as a shield against any attempts to get his attention again.

The team leader sighed to himself.  Dang.  He would’ve liked to have been wrong about that one.  _This_ was not going to be easy.

* * * * *

“So what will you do now?” Sam asked, watching as Hawke stroked the silky smooth metal of the deadly chopper.

“Take ‘er home,” Hawke drawled, glancing over his shoulder.  “Got an old friend of mine I’m gonna look up, see if he’s interested in flying with me.”  The chopper growled and Hawke tapped it once.  “Down, Lady; Sam’s a friend.  One of the best I had in the squad.”

Sam jerked.  “Then why…?”

Apology shone in Hawke’s eyes.  “Shouldn’t have done what I did, Braddock.  If your little tech friend hadn’t shown up, not sure _how_ I would’ve kept it from getting any worse.”

Sam crossed his arms, forcing himself to hold Hawke’s gaze.  “Ryan would have found a way to get me even if you hadn’t helped,” he pointed out quietly.

“Maybe,” Hawke allowed, “But I should’ve stuck to my guns instead of bein’ part of the problem.”  He walked to the helicopter’s left door and pulled it open with a soft _hiss_.  “You ever need any help, Braddock, let me know.  Me ‘n’ the Lady’ll be there, my word on it.”

“Take care of yourself, Hawke,” Sam called back, a faint smile crossing his face as the blades on Airwolf’s back roared to life.  Whirling up to speed, the black and white chopper lifted off the ground, its three wheels retracting before it turned and flew away.  A wolf’s howl shattered the air and Airwolf screamed skywards, disappearing in less than a second.

* * * * *

He was grateful when Jules finally gave up and left; once she was gone, he let out a gryphon sigh, slumping down to the ground in misery.  He’d almost carved a member of his own team up for supper!  That couldn’t be changed, couldn’t be taken back.  He didn’t _deserve_ his team or his family any more, if he ever had.  To betray their trust like that…

Greg’s wing throbbed and he welcomed the pain; he deserved every bit of it.  Loneliness pressed in and he welcomed that, too.  Physical pain, emotional pain – a mere drop in the bucket compared to what he owed his team for turning on them.  Once he was back to his human self, he was done, out.  He’d gladly toss his badge and gun down on Holleran’s desk in exchange for getting his former team out from under Toth’s thumb.

Maybe Wordy would be willing to take the kids in?  He didn’t trust himself near them, not any more.  The next time he snapped, the next time his gryphon side took over…he couldn’t risk hurting them or any innocents.  A soft keen-whine rose as he contemplated how to best to keep those around him safe until, well…until…

A voice in the back of his head insisted that he was considering a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but all he had to do was shift his head down enough to see his talons to know _this_ problem _wasn’t_ temporary.  It wasn’t going to go away, _ever_.  No, the best he could hope for was to keep from hurting anyone else until he could…finish it.

He’d have to drive his team away, his young cousins, too.  Not easy, but doable.  A few snarls, a threatening swipe or two, and surely they’d see how dangerous he was.  For a moment, Greg wanted to cry, but gryphons couldn’t cry; their eyes weren’t designed for tears.  Then his sensitive ears picked up the sound of the door opening and he stiffened.  Time to get this show on the road.

* * * * *

Airwolf soared past the standard jetliner altitude, reaching its regular cruising altitude of 60,000 feet less than two minutes after departing McKean.  In the pilot’s seat, Hawke adjusted the chopper’s radio communications, tuning into a secure, scrambled channel.  “Hawke to Archangel, over.”

Silence, but Hawke was unconcerned, merely adjusting Airwolf’s heading and speed towards Eagle Lake and Van Nuys Airport.  For close to an hour, Airwolf flew in almost complete silence, ghosting past radar as Hawke checked the stealth chopper’s systems over, comparing the Airwolf he’d flown in her test phase to the Airwolf Moffet had created.  Her fuel was lasting longer than he remembered, likely because of the Obscurus bound to the helicopter’s very frame.

“You like the name Lady?” Hawke finally asked the chopper.  “Or did Moffet have a name for you?”

The helicopter seemed to bob under him and the merest thread of magic touched him.  No words were uttered, but Hawke got the impression that the Obscurus was fine with ‘Lady’.

Abruptly, the radio came to life.  “Hawke, this had better be important,” Archangel growled.

“Michael, I found her.”

“Found whom?” the spy bit out.

“Airwolf.”

A sharp intake of breath, as Archangel absorbed Hawke’s reply.  “It’s been _years_ , Hawke.”

“Yeah,” Hawke agreed.  “But I found her and I’m bringin’ her home.”

“Home.”

Hawke rolled the controls, turning Airwolf towards the Valley of the Gods.  “Yep,” he drawled.  “Was thinkin’ of askin’ Dom if he wants to be my engineer.”

“Hawke!”

“Archangel, she ain’t what she was,” Hawke announced firmly.  “You give her to just any pilot and she’ll rip him and everything else she gets near to shreds.  Till I can get through to her, it’s me or nothing.  An’ I want Dom as my engineer.”

A low voiced curse.  “Anything else, _Stringfellow_?”

Hawke grinned tiredly.  “Two things.”

“Two.”

“Yea.  I want Sinjin.”

“Hawke, we don’t know if he’s even still alive!” Archangel protested.

“Then I want his body,” Hawke growled; hearing his agitation, Airwolf let loose with a low, rumbling snarl.  “Easy, Lady,” he soothed.

Archangel hissed in shock; he’d heard Airwolf through the radio.  “You weren’t kidding, were you, Stringfellow?”

“Nope.”

“Very well, what else do you want?”

“I want you to keep an eye on Sam Braddock and his team.  I owe them…so do _you_ by the way.”

“Oh?”  The word dripped with Archangel’s disbelief.

Hawke’s lips parted in the merest breath of a laugh.  “How do you think I got the Lady back?”

Archangel grumbled, but Hawke knew the Firm spy.  He would do as Hawke had asked.  And maybe, the next time someone gunned as hard as Moffet had for Team One, they’d have much bigger guns in their corner.

“Airwolf out,” Hawke drawled before switching the channel to another scrambled one.  “Hey, Dom!”

“String?”  He could practically see Dom snap to attention and hope rang in his voice.  “You comin’ home?”

“Sure am, old-timer,” Hawke replied, grinning at Dom’s indignant sputter.  “An’ I’m bringing a Lady home with me.”

Airwolf howled as she dropped towards the Valley of the Gods.

“I think you’ll like ‘er, Dom.  She’s got a couple rough edges, but we’ll work those out.”

“Oh, that kind of lady, huh?” Dom groused.  “Do you still have to fly _manually_ or does she do it all for you?”

The Lady growled, but Hawke just shook his head.  “We’re gonna have to figure her out from scratch, Dom.  Moffet did a number on her.”

A grunt.  “That creep.  Can it wait till tomorrow, String?  I’ve got a stunt scheduled.”

“We got time, Dom,” Hawke promised, patting Airwolf’s controls.  The Valley of the Gods loomed ahead and Hawke slowed the Lady’s speed.  “I’m gonna park her in that one spot we found way back when.  Can you pick me up?”

“Sure thing, String,” Dom agreed.  “Tuck her in all nice and snug for me, will ya?”

“You got it, Dom.”  Hawke brought the helicopter to a hover over a chimney-like rock formation and dropped Airwolf down, extending the wheels and landing her lightly on the smooth rock of the chopper’s new home.  He shut down the engines and eased out of the aircraft, closing the door and walking around to do one last check.

When he was done, he stroked Airwolf’s nose.  “Welcome home, Lady.”

Darkness swirled, but a touch lighter than it had been before.  The hydraulics hissed as Airwolf made herself comfortable.  As Hawke left, the Obscurus considered him and came to a decision.  It… _she_ …would stay.  If nothing else, it would be entertaining to see how _this_ human intended to use her.  And she very much wished to meet this ‘Dom’ and see what he thought of her.

_I wonder what a home is…_

* * * * *

Wordy whistled under his breath as he surveyed the room Sarge had found to hole up in.  Ed had tried, the kids had tried, heck, even Jules had tried, arguing that Sarge shouldn’t feel guilty for something that had been completely out of his control.  The Sergeant hadn’t listened and, worse, the bullet wound on his right wing hadn’t been treated yet.

“Wow,” Wordy called, “You look worse than me, Sarge.”

The wings flickered, the feline muscles bunching, then the gryphon shifted back to his former position.

“Come on, Sarge,” Wordy cajoled, striding across the room towards his boss.  “Don’t be like that.  You can’t hide in here forever, you know.”

The muscles bunched again, then the gryphon whirled, quick as lightning.  Wordy froze as burning hazel eyes bored into him and the gryphon snarl-hissed, wings spreading as he crouched to pounce.  Fear locked the constable in place, the smile slipping off his face before he could stop it.  After a moment, the gryphon straightened, eyes softening for an instant before he whirled away again and curled up in sheer misery.

Wordy swallowed hard, his entire body shaking in reaction to the visceral fear that had seized him as soon as Sarge turned.  He looked down at the ground, his shoulders tightening; he flexed his fingers open and closed as he strained to calm down.  “I’m,” he choked out, before lifting his head and setting his jaw.  “I’m not walking away, Sarge.”

A tired hiss-growl came from the gryphon, as if Sarge was saying, _Go away, already._   The feathered lion tail lashed.  But if Sarge thought it was _that_ easy to chase him away, he’d obviously underestimated his constable’s stubborn streak.

“I trust you, Sarge,” Wordy continued, raising his voice.  “And I’m sorry for getting mad at you over what happened to Roy.”  A faint smile.  “You saved him, Sarge.  _You_ did that.  Healer said you and Sam managed to fix my magical core a little, too.  Not an ounce of humanity and you _still_ got the job done, Boss.  You didn’t even know who you were, but you were still there for us, Sarge.  You saved us.”

Gingerly, warily, Wordy stepped closer to the gryphon, keeping his eyes on Sarge’s wings and what little he could see of the gryphon’s head.  “Potter heard from Silnok, too.  They found Locksley’s daughter alive.  She needs some serious healing up, but she’s going to be okay, Sarge.  Almost all the weapons Moffet was putting together have been rounded up and destroyed.  His little magic-tech war is officially dead.”

Sarge jerked, his tail almost hitting Wordy as it lashed, but he stayed huddled up and hidden.

“Bruck admitted to being part of Moffet’s break out team, too.  The Americans can’t disavow him fast enough and it turns out he was running around with Ed’s gun.  Spike and Team Three’s tech are going to go through the surveillance for the past couple of months, see if they can pin down when the swap was made.”

Wordy eased himself to the ground and stared at the gryphon’s back, steeling himself.  He reached out, resting one hand on the sleek fur and refused to budge, even as Sarge’s head whipped around and stared at him in warning.  The gryphon hissed angrily, but the fixed hazel eyes lowered to Wordy’s arm, which sported a fresh scar from where his Sergeant’s talons had dug in.  A soft whine-keen came from the gryphon.

_Gotcha._   Gently, Wordy reached over with his other hand and tapped the scar.  “You could’ve killed me, Sarge.”  The whine-keen grew louder, despair fairly rolling off the transformed Sergeant.  “But you didn’t.  That’s what matters.  To me.”

The gryphon’s head came up a touch, the furry, feathery ears pricking.  Despair warred with newborn hope.

For a long moment, man and gryphon held each other’s gaze.  Then Wordy smiled, ever so slightly.  “Come on, Sarge, let’s get out of here and get you fixed up, okay?  The sooner we get that wing of yours healed, the sooner you can talk back.”

The trill sounded a bit like a shaky, uncertain laugh, but the gryphon finally uncurled and let Wordy coax him up and out the door towards McKean’s infirmary.  Daringly, Wordy rested his hand on the top of the gryphon’s head, feeling the silky smooth feathers.  The very edges of the white and gray feathers were just a bit uneven and fuzzing.  The brunet constable grinned playfully.

“Sarge, I think your gryphon form’s going bald.”

All he received in reply was an imperious and dignified growl-hiss, coupled with a tail flick.

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so...Moffet's arc finally comes to a close. What? Did ya'll think he'd be around forever, like Red John in _The Mentalist_? Nah...we're moving onto bigger and better villains...eventually. *evil author grin*
> 
> Anyway, as you _may_ have noted, we do still have one final loose thread to tie up, which we'll get started on when "Riddle of the Gryphon" kicks off _this_ Friday, July 12th, 2019.
> 
> In the meantime, I do hope you enjoyed this story and I'd be very grateful and thankful for any comments.
> 
> See you on the battlefield! (And a cyber cookie to anyone who names the reference I keep dropping!)


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